AUTHOR MILLIE PRICE
Photo by EOD photography
Short Stories
If you are interested in reprinting the following short story for your publication, please use the contact form.
Thanks for reading!
This is not a cult.
It's the future.
Death. It’s how these stories always end, but my boss didn't pay me to save people, he paid me to brainwash them. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror in my crummy apartment, I applied expensive lipstick, layered my face with top-of-the-line make-up, squeezed into a body shaper, then a tight black dress, stuffed my manicured feet into a pair of stiletto hills, and brushed my gleaming blond hair so that it fell below my shoulders. Standing in front of the mirror again, I smiled. Everything I wore had been paid for with government funds and I looked hot. I grabbed my purse and walked to the front door. If all goes well, this gig will be my last and all I have to do is sell one, final lie. My name is Meagan; I am a failed journalist who became a social media influencer after a colleague turned me onto the latest internet craze. Political celebrities. I thought it was a joke, another trend gone wild, but she had a sponsor already lined up. A candidate that had won an election and wanted to use his platform to become a king. He had gobs of cash and was willing to throw some of it at me if I promoted his shtick. I was broke, late on rent, and was in dire need of the newest Jimmy Choos so the gig was a no brainer. Heading down the cracked concrete steps outside my door, I walked toward the gaudy red bus waiting for me at the curb. It was empty, save the driver. I flashed a smile, and the driver offered me a hand up the steps. His skin felt like moist sandpaper and his body odor smelled like sour milk and whiskey. It slapped me in the face as I got onto the bus and walked to the seats in the middle to discourage small talk. The driver, like the other people I was heading to meet, thought my boss was a god and after a few videos accentuating my busty features in skimpy clothes, I became their goddess. Keeping small talk to a minimum was part of the gig. My target demographic was people dumb enough to believe that one man could change the world, but they weren’t simple followers or fans. These people were Heaven’s Gate type folks that would follow my boss off a cliff. I called them lovelies on my social media accounts, but in private I called them worshippers. They had plots of land all over the country. I was heading to the one near my apartment in Colorado. The worshipers thought I was coming to support the political monster that had just paid for my Bentley. As usual, they had no clue. The bus climbed the mountain near Crestone, and turned onto an unpaved road guarded by an electrical fence and ten, maybe even twenty ‘No Trespassing’ signs. There were militant men and women standing along the road, each one decked out in full riot gear, and they held automatic weapons. I gave the militants a wink, flashed a smile and pushed my boobs up against the glass for a touch of excitement. I got a smile from one of the guards, but the others stood with faces of stone, their focus on the dusty road behind the bus. The driver continued to another gate made of steel, and we waited for it to open. The worshipers called the plots, “The Land of the Free”. I called them compounds, but only in my head because the gig had come with stipulations: Keep my opinions to myself. Read what they gave me. Show a lot of skin. Follow Tom, the program manager. I stepped off the bus and was immediately greeted by a sea of bald heads. Women and men alike. Thankfully, we were out in the open air, but even so, the stench from unwashed skin filled my nose and turned my stomach. Everyone on the compound wore burlap pants and red shirts that hung over their hungry, tired bodies. The shirts were branded with the same motto printed in white. On the front they read: “This is not a cult.” On the back: “It’s the future.” I swallowed a laugh, flashed my expensive smile and followed Tom through the crowd. Securing my phone onto a selfie stick, I started a live stream. Another stipulation of my contract. My boss wanted the world to see his lemmings' dedication and encourage more worshipers to swallow his obvious, yet effective lies. Turning the camera so that my face filled the feed, I flashed my pouty lips, threw up a peace sign, gave hundreds of thousands of viewers a wink, and then swiped the phone over the crowd. There were a few emojis of anger and a wave of nasty comments on the scroll, but they were from influencers working for the opposing team. Their hatred fueled the worshipers into a frenzy and within seconds, my viewership doubled. I silently cheered. I had earned a bonus with the enormous number scrolling on my cell phone screen. I could put down a deposit on that house in Aspen and finally leave my crummy apartment behind. The compound looked like every other compound I had ever seen. There were numerous trailers, one large building, multiple tents and RVs and vans all haphazardly parked around a large bonfire. The compound itself, was surrounded by a forest, and I could hear a river running not too far away. “Isn’t it illegal to have all these dwellings on residential land?” I asked Tom, placing the screen in front of us so that the viewers could get a good look at what they called success. Tom puffed his chest, making sure that the logo on his shirt was seen on the screen. “Actually, this land has been purchased by a corporation set up by our glorious leader. All who voted for him, and can show proof are welcome to come.” The feed went wild. Free rent, and a group of people that not only looked alike, but all believed the same, small-minded things was like a fairy tale to those watching the stream. “You heard it here first folks,” I said, flashing another wink. It was part of my brand. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell your family out there in the unforgiving woke world Tom?” It was one of the questions I was obligated to ask. Tom’s red face lit up as a smile spread from sunburned ear to sunburned ear. He took a step away from the cell phone and pinched the top of his shirt with both hands, lifting it and shaking it vigorously. “This is not a cult. It’s the future!” I stifled a chuckle as the crowd behind Tom mimicked his movement and the chant began. “This is not a cult. It’s the future.” The feed went wild as thousands of people typed the motto over and over. At first the letters where small, grammar proper, but then they changed to all caps with multiple exclamation points. I couldn’t have set it up better if I tried. I didn’t believe a damn word my boss said, but I couldn’t deny that his shtick was doing the job. We headed through the crowd and further into the compound. I subtly held my breath, letting out small ones, and inhaled quickly to avoid the growing stench around me. The sun was high in the sky, and the heat worsened every smell, but my smile held firm even as I passed a crying child in soiled clothes. I was here to do a job. I had to get it done. I had studied cults for an article when I was still a journalist. That’s how I got the gig as the psycho’s goddess. I was hired to use the information I had gathered to further my boss’s reign because people who fell for cult tactics were the easiest targets. All the cults boiled down to the same two things, acceptance, and the promise of something better bestowed by something greater: the devil, aliens, God, or in this case, a rich white man with an enormous beer gut. Most cults ended up the same but… “This is not a cult. It’s the future.” I shook away yet another giggle as the motto flowed through my head. I shouldn’t laugh. Thanks to these people, and what I was about to do, I would go from internet celebrity to correspondent. I’d be a journalist again. The contract was signed. Tom, followed by the rest of the compound, walked me past amateur busts with my face placed between the dwellings of the property. They stood next to the statues of my boss. Well, statues that represented what my boss could be if he laid off the cheeseburgers. The concrete busts of me were crafted to replicate poses from my social media accounts. Each one had a plaque beneath it with a quote I had been hired to say. “We can be one.” “Your truth his lips.” The worshippers ate that shit up. “We pray at them every night,” Tom said with pride. “And we watch your reels on that big screen over there,” a tiny meager woman pointed to a white sheet hanging between an RV and a trailer. “Mind yourself Karen. You’re speaking out of turn.” Tom’s jovial face had transformed into stone as he glared at the tiny woman. She slunk back into the crowd, her eyes cast down, and her hands tightly clasped in front of her chest. “Don’t let the bastards grind you down,” I said. Tom’s chest swelled again. “That’s right.” The crowd cheered and the feed on the stream went bonkers. It took everything in my will power not to burst into laughter. The quote was from A Handmaid’s Tale. A story about female oppression and ultimately war. Had they ever read a book or watched anything other than the news they would’ve gotten the joke. I flashed a smile, twisted my hips and did a little hop so that my boobs bounced with the crowd. The real reason I had come was quickly becoming something I wanted to do, instead of something I had to do. We walked through foot paths toward the large building in the center of the compound. In front of it was a humungous bonfire. Hanging over the fire, and from a spit were multiple black cauldrons with herbs boiling in water. I turned to Tom. “Is that?—” He cut me off. “The preparations of course.” He threw me a wink. I smiled, but couldn’t hide the furrow in my brow. “It’s for the ceremony. I thought you were aware,” Tom said, his brow furrowed too. “Of course,” I smoothed my face and lifted my chin. We headed into the large building, Tom and I first, followed by the rest of the worshippers, all their eyes bright, their bodies eager to enter behind us. The building, maybe three-thousand square feet or more, had no furniture, only a stage and empty space filled with bean bags, portable chairs, and blankets. The walls were covered with pictures of my boss, each paunch and wrinkles smoothed to perfection, his smile wider than in real life and his stance far more powerful than the one I had seen. Tom stood at the bottom of the stage, waiting for me to take his hand so that he could help me up the steps. I twisted to take another look at the crowd, and my gut churned. Could I really do what I was here to do? I remembered the last line in my contract. “If you choose not to fulfill this obligation. All funds paid will have to be repaid and we will offer the contract to someone worthy.” I thought about the house in Aspen, the Bentley, and those sweet Jimmy Choo heels I’ve had my eyes on all month. These people weren’t worth giving up any of it. Especially when they chose to be here. I took the last step onto the platform, did a sexy little twist and faced the crowd. They rushed to the front of the stage, some of them crying, some of them lifting their hands in prayer to the statue of my boss behind me. In front of the statue were ornate leather chairs with a table in between them. On the table were two wine glasses filled with green liquid. Mine was tea, a specific blend I had requested for the occasion. Ten people entered the building carrying trays of wooden mugs also filled with green liquid from the cauldrons that had been boiling outside. Once the last person entered, the doors were closed and locked. The mugs were handed out, and each person took one, thanking the servers for the blessings they were about to receive. Behind me, a large white screen dropped from the ceiling, and at the other end of the room a projector began to play. Thousands upon thousands of people beamed onto the screen, all of them in compounds like the Land of the Free, but in different parts of the country. They were all bald and wore the same red shirt proudly displaying their motto: “This is not a cult. It’s the future.” I popped the tripod out of my selfie-stick, faced the camera toward the crowd, grabbed my green tea and sat elegantly in my chair. Just like the goddess I was expected to be. Tapping the table beside me with a long, manicured fingernail, I remembered my last meeting. *** We were at a steak house. It was me, Theresa, the social coordinator, and a lawyer named Mack. We sat in a booth far away from the other patrons. I had just read the contract, combed through the fine print and couldn’t believe what I had just read. “But why them?” I asked. “Aren’t they the reason he’s in office.” We were never allowed to say our boss’s name in public. Mack leaned back and tightened his suit jacket around his ample gut. “Our plan to turn the others against each other have failed. The police shootings were designed to start riots that would lead to the extermination of the black neighborhoods. They became stronger, more united. The racist posts by other social media followers were supposed to divide the poor whites against the others in their communities. They had no real effect. The lettered population,” he rolled his eyes, “were our original targets, but there is a spotlight on them that can’t be dimmed. And the immigration raids are costing more money than we can spare. We’ll have to pull out soon.” He leaned over the table. “We’ve made certain promises to certain people you understand. The burden on our government’s budget must be lessened. This is the only way left to achieve that.” I stared at the contract, but didn’t answer. There were too many questions running through my mind, questions I couldn’t ask without risking the gig. I asked the only one that would keep me safe. “But if we do this, won’t it hurt his chances at re-election?” Mack scoffed. “I can see you are hesitant,” he slapped a fat hand over the contract and slid it across the table. “I’m not saying I won’t do it.” I slid the contract back. “I just want to be clear that I won’t face any consequences.” “Other than the promotion to correspondent,” Theresa added. “Yes, other than that,” I replied. Mack reached over to the contract and grazed my hand. I cringed, but hid it well. “As you can see, right here,” he pointed to a tiny line of script. “In the case of litigation, a lawyer will be appointed. That’s me, and I’m the best. I don’t foresee conviction, but if there is, full pardon will be granted. And let’s not forget the funds that will be deposited into your account upon completion.” He flipped the page to the front and tapped on a number with a whole lot of zeroes. *** My gut churned again. My instincts were running amok. They screamed, begging me to stop, but I had a job to do, and damn it, my future depended on it. Tom lifted his wine glass to the crowd. “Today. We become one. A great and powerful nation that will stand against all that defies us. This is not a cult! This is the future!” The crowd in the building and on the screen roared, filling the space with a wall of sound. They lifted the cups to their lips and drank as if the green liquid was life itself. I drank my tea, stood from the chair, and lifted the glass to the crowd. “To the future!” *** The next morning, as I packed up my apartment, I watched the news. Thousands, upon thousands of dead and bloated bodies filled the screen, all of them on compounds across the country. I ran to the toilet and emptied my stomach of the guilt consuming me. The cauldrons over the bon fire had been filled with hemlock. Everyone died except me and Tom. I pulled myself up from the bathroom floor, and gurgled the mouthwash I had left unpacked. It didn’t rinse out the taste of death, but it did cover it for a while. Fixing my lipstick again, I returned to the living room to finish packing the final box. A knock rasped at my door, and I hustled to it, eager to get out of the ratty apartment and head toward my new life. A man in a suit stood on the other side, my driver. A perk of the promotion. “Would you like me to carry that box down to the car?” he asked. “That would be great,” I replied, still holding my stomach. He entered the apartment as a news anchor appeared on the screen with pictures of the dead bodies in a small box at her side. The driver huffed and I saw a smile on his face as he lifted the box and headed for the door. The broadcaster began to speak. “Tragedy struck yesterday as thousands of cult members calling themselves The Land of the Free committed suicide.” I grabbed my purse and slipped on the Jimmy Choos that had arrived when I returned home. “It’s not a cult,” I mumbled as I closed the apartment door. “It’s the future.”
Coincidence?
Sun rays burst through the cloudy sky and down onto a clearing on a mountain top drying the morning dew on the wild grass. A man, tall but stout in a suit of all black emerged from the trees. His hands were held high, as he led his flock to the sun’s promised warmth. There were many that came, men, women and children who had sat in rapt attention as their fearless leader described the message he had received in a dream. Find the spot and be free. Oohs and Ahs filled the air as they wandered through the tall grass, forgetting about the snakes and mountain lions who called the place home. They were eager to be freed, to be lifted to the heavens and away from the drudgery and horror of their lives. Each foot fall dampened their feet, and the cool air raised the flesh of their arms as they approached a large, branded X. Around the mark each blade of grass was laid next to or on top of another and all in the same direction. The flock didn’t notice or care, their eyes were focused on the clouds in the skies, a depiction of the beautiful place that their leader had promised. One by one the people sluffed off the shadows casted by the clouds and emerged into the light of the sun, ready and eager to leave this world and their old lives behind. There was no singing, no prayers, only humbled silence as the man in the black suit approached the mark. Another breeze flitted through the clearing with a calming scent of lavender and marigolds. The crowd sighed in unison as smiles spread across their faces. The man in the suit stepped upon the X. Reaching his hands to the sky, he tilted his head up and his eyes down, smiling to the flock that he had led to salvation. His feet rose from the ground and the soles of his black shoes hovered inches above the lain grass. Then, as if yanked by a string from the heavens, the man disappeared into the clouds with joyous laughter. Without question, people fell in line, each one eager to be taken. Some went alone, others in groups, but they all went willingly and filled with hope. All but one. A young woman. She had spent the entire ride up the mountain questioning the man in the black suit, believing his dream was a farce. It wasn’t. Her eyes widened as her parents joined the line and she clung onto her father’s hands, pulling him away from the mark. He pulled her close, kissed her forehead and then returned to the line. A ball formed in the woman’s throat as fear, apprehension and worry swirled through her mind. She had seen it, had witnessed the truth of the man’s dreams, but there was something inside her body screaming, “Run!” Her feet lifted from the ground by her own force, and she slapped them back into the wet grass, pushing her body away from the clearing and back to the line of trees from which they had appeared. *** Benny and Denice slogged down the trail to their favorite spot hoisting their backpacks higher to their shoulders. Benny, a short king of the tallest order, flipped his bangs from his eyes and wiped droplets of sweat from his face. Denice, only inches taller then Benny, adjusted her sports bra so that her large breasts rested back beneath the elastic that was supposed to hold them in place. The morning breeze rustled the pine needles of the trees sending their sent up the young hiker’s noses as a tune played through a Bluetooth speaker hanging off Benny’s pack. “It’s raining men, really Benny?” Denice huffed and rolled her eyes. They had embarked on an early camping trip to nurse their broken hearts. Denice had been dumped only days before by a man she didn’t like. Yet, after he called it quits, she had found an unexplainable desire for him, as if his rejection had kindled a fire she didn’t know was there. Benny chuckled. “Sorry, I just put on the last playlist I was listening to.” He tried to laugh again but it dissolved into a sigh. He too had been dumped. Just last night. Unlike Denice, he loved his paramour, but the feeling hadn’t been reciprocated. Or at least that’s what Benny had surmised when he found his partner cheating on him. “I’ll change the song.” Denice stopped and put a hand on Benny’s forearm. “No, let it play. For the love of God let the song play.” She plastered a hand to her heart looking up to the sky with all the drama of a black and white movie scarlet. Then she screamed. Grabbing Benny’s chest, she pushed him hard throwing them both to the ground. A form in a black suit hit the trail in front of them like a missile. Benny clamored to his knees and stretched his neck to get a better look. “Is that a person? Denice. Holy shit! I think it’s a person!” The body was mummified, the sunken skin stretched tight over the bones. The black suit it wore swallowed what was left of the man and he had no eyes or a nose. Benny scuttled back toward Denice looking up to the sky. More black dots dropped from the clouds, each one flailing like a rag doll in the wind. “Get up, get up, get up!” He gripped Denice’s wrist and pulled her from the ground. She looked up. “What the fuck!” Denice dug her feet into the ground and pushed her tired legs harder than she had ever pushed them in her life. Behind her, Benny placed his hands on her back, moving her faster. On the backpack, the Bluetooth speaker bounced as the Weather Girl’s belted out the chorus to the song, “It’s raining men, hallelujah, it’s raining men.” Another body dropped, then another and another. It was human rain. The corpses slammed into trees, broke on the boulders and crashed into hard clay. Thud, crash, boomf. There were no squelches, no squishiness because there was no blood, only taught mummified flesh.
Izzy's Entry
No one cared. When Tony Padilla’s car was found on the tracks, still running, with the keys dangling from the ignition, no one cared. When Shauna Rodriguez’s backpack was picked up from those same tracks filled with schoolbooks, her cell phone, and a prescription for her grandmother Selena, no one cared. Weeks later, Selena’s orthopedic shoes and knitted scarf were found between the rails, both of them splattered with blood. Still, no one cared. But when Raul Apadaca disappeared there was one person who paid attention, his cousin, Issabelle Johnson. Izzy lived in Denver, over an hour away from Raul’s home in the dying town of Milliken, but he had saved three months of rent and was only days away from moving into her apartment in the city. The dream faded when his mother’s social security check didn’t arrive, and Raul had to use the savings to pay her nursing home bill. That’s when Izzy received the video. Raul stood between the iron rails of the same tracks where Shauna and the others vanished. Under the cloak of darkness, he whispered wishes and turned to the camera, his eyes widened in terror, the blood in his face drained and his lips quivered. “Dammit Izz, I fucked up. I called him. I called Tezcatlipoca. Please come and find me. Don’t let them forget me like they did the others.” Host of the burgeoning podcast, Small Town Scares, Izzy packed a bag and sped toward Milliken grinding her teeth against the growing pain in her head. She had used Raul’s video to grease the palms of the money men, and they salivated over the footage, their eyes glazed with greed as they witnessed, what could be, her cousin’s final moments. Bile had risen in her throat as they slid the check across the shiny conference table, and she bit the inside of her cheek as self-loathing consumed her flesh. She sold Raul’s pain, but she needed funds to investigate what no one else would. The truth of his fate. She gripped the steering wheel until blood drained from her knuckles as Raul’s words rolled over and over in her head. “I called him. I called Tezcatlipoca.” The muscles in her chest constricted. Izzy had studied the Aztec Deity in an ancient history class at Arapahoe Community College a few years back. A way to connect to the Mexican side of her bi-racial roots. According to the myth, Tezcatlipoca was the god of sorcery, vengeance, darkness, and death. He appeared when called by a desperate soul standing between the lines of what was and what could be. If the summoner had the courage to pull the beating heart from his chest, whisper wishes to it and replace it, the Deity fulfilled their desires. Izzy had called Raul eager to share the story, and they spent the entire night talking about their dreams. He only had one. Escape Milliken, Colorado. She had many, but didn’t depend on imaginary beings to make them come true. Raul did and would go to extremes to chase that faith, his only hope in a world where apathy now reigned. Izzy feared that he had gone too far this time. She slammed a palm into the steering wheel. She should’ve never told him the story. *** Leaving a decrepit gas station at the edge of Milliken, Izzy drove through the desolate and dying town. All the government buildings were shuttered and according to the withered attendant at the station, the only place still open was the local library. Pulling into an empty parking lot, Izzy ignored the panic growing beneath her skin. The library was small, the size of a boutique in the city, but according to Raul, it was the only place to find “The Book of Names.” He didn’t explain what it was, only that she would know when she found it and the only way to find it was to ask the librarian about the railroad tracks. Izzy dropped her head to the steering wheel. It wasn’t the first time Raul had chased a superstition; his curiosity and previous adventures are what inspired the podcast, but it was the first time he hadn’t come back. Stepping out of the car, she lifted her nose. A vibrant scent of marigolds filled the air, but there were no puffy yellow flowers around her, only anemic bushes, empty lots, and dilapidated buildings. The sky was cloudless, yet the warmth of the sun never reached the ground and there was an ever-present breeze that whispered words in a language Izzy couldn’t understand. Walking beneath an obsidian awning hanging over a smokey mirrored door, she stepped inside the library. The marigolds permeated the library too and so did the whispering breeze. She turned back to the door. It wasn’t open and there were no windows in sight. Rubbing the raised flesh on her arms, she approached the librarian at the reception desk. The librarian, with a round stern face, flung a long purple braid over one shoulder. Her eyes were cast down, reading something below her hands, but Izzy still felt them watching her. She cleared her throat. “I’m looking for information on the railroad tracks.” Without a word, the woman pointed to a single shelf on the other end of the room and Izzy hustled to it, scanned the books, pulled down two, dusted them off, and headed for the only table in the library. The first book was on the history of the railroad tracks. It had a brown leather cover and was thin, maybe two hundred pages. She opened it. The railroad tracks were built in the center of the town when it was born over a century ago. They were supposed to bring growth and progress that would carry Milliken into the future, but they were never completed. It didn’t mention why. After the construction stopped, trees sprung up around the town until a lush forest isolated it from the highway only ten minutes away. Soon after, Milliken began to die and the rest of the world left it behind to be reclaimed by nature. Izzy closed the book. The stories were strange, no doubt, but not sinister or supernatural. She moved on to the next one. A wire-bound book covered in cardboard the size of an epic novel. Izzy’s breath caught in her throat as she read the title. “The Book of Names.” Raul hadn’t made it up. Her gut churned with anger and revulsion as she opened the book. Raul mentioned Tony, Shauna, and Selena in the video, and she searched the police blotters before arriving in town. No one reported them missing so there were no investigations. Scanning the first page, Izzy’s brow furrowed. Each entry was easy to read, and were all in the same small but neat penmanship with no fly away marks or ticks. Swiping a tear from her eye, she glanced at the librarian behind the reception desk. Maybe someone did care. The librarian lifted her head and Izzy snapped hers down, embarrassed by the fear growing in her chest. “I called him. I called Tezcatlipoca.” She slid a hand down her face silently chastising the thoughts lighting up the folds of her brain. Aztec Deities weren’t real. Whatever Raul found was all in his head. It had to be. Swallowing guilt, Izzy studied the entries. The first were immigrants brought in to work on the then-burgeoning sugar plant. Mexican, Chinese, German and Russian workers lured by the promise of citizenship and small parcels of land in exchange for cheap labor. One by one they went missing, the only proof that they existed found between two iron rails. Izzy took photos of pictures glued to the pages and continued to read. Over the course of a century at least sixty-two people vanished, and although the book held their names and faces, none of the entries explained what happened to them, only that they were all last seen on the tracks. Flipping through empty pages in the back, she stared at one of them. It was brighter than the others as if it had recently been added to the binding. The implication was clear. Raul’s disappearance wouldn’t be the last. Flipping to the back cover, she leaned in closer to read tiny words written on the bottom. “Between the tracks await the coyote.” The phantom breeze picked up lifting hair from her skin as Izzy’s eyes moved upward. She jumped, and the metal feet of the chair clacked against the old linoleum floor. The librarian stood in front of the table; her hands clasped tightly below her chest. Izzy stammered. “I…I was researching the town folklore. Have you heard of it?” The librarian said nothing, only stared at the book. Pulling up a voice recorder on her phone, Izzy tried again. “I’m doing a story for a podcast and any information you could give me would be very much appreciated.” Still nothing. Izzy forced a smile and flipped the book to face the woman. “Do you know what this means?” she asked, pointing to the line on the back cover. Still, the woman said nothing. Grabbing her phone, Izzy stood from the table in a huff and headed for the door. The woman’s voice floated behind her. “People who look for trouble always find it.” She turned to face the librarian, but the woman was gone, and so was the book. Heading back to her car, Izzy covered her nose against the now pungent marigolds and got behind the wheel. The cell phone, still in her hand, blared with an upbeat ringtone and she answered the call. It was her producer. “Hey Laurie. What’s up?” Laurie spoke fast, her pitch high and excited. “The sponsors are chomping at the bit for this one. We need footage. I called Koz, he’ll be there this evening with cameras.” Izzy’s gut churned, but Raul’s final words rolled through her mind again. “Don’t let them forget me like they forgot the rest. Please. Come find me.” She swallowed the ball of shame stuck in the center of her throat. “Have him bring the infrared cameras,” she told Laurie, and a burst of wind shook the car. Laurie squealed. “Izzy, this might be the one we’ve been waiting for.” “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said and ran a hand down her leg to wipe away the self-loathing. She was exploiting her cousin’s unstable mind, but it was the only way to find him. *** Knock, knock. Izzy yelped, popped up from Raul’s couch and turned to the window. The dark day had become a darker night, and she had spent hours entranced by the living room walls. “Koz, is that you?” she called out heading for the door. “No. It’s Casper the Friendly Fucking Ghost. Hurry up, I’ve got a lot of expensive shit out here and this place is sketchy as hell.” She opened the door and forced a smile. “Funny, that’s what people tell me about you.” Koz stood on the other side, his green eyes squinted, and his auburn hair mussed. “Ha, ha. Give me a hand here will ya—?” He wheeled a dolly into the center of the room and cocked his head at the walls. “What in the psycho killer hell is that?” he asked walking to one of them. They were covered in pictures and notes, the dirty paint beneath only visible in small chunks around the room. There were hand drawn sketches, vibrant digital art and pages with rippled edges torn out of books. All of them depicted a headless man, his chest ripped open to display the sinews of the inner flesh and a glowing red heart that shined like a jewel. The name “Tezcatlipoca” was scrawled everywhere, the letters jagged and the marks deep in the wall. Izzy told Koz the story of the Aztec god and her hands shook; her foot tapped the worn carpet. Lifting her shoulders against the weight of guilt, she said, “he wasn’t always like this.” Koz rubbed her back, his eyes still on the walls. “Was he on meds?” he asked. Izzy shook her head. “He barely made enough to afford this shithole. Any extra money went to my aunt.” She choked back the flood of tears in her throat. “I’m afraid he may have—” Her voice hitched, and she turned away from the wall, embarrassed and ashamed. “If I’d driven down here once, just once in all these years, I could have stopped him. He would’ve listened to me and gotten help. I know he would’ve.” “You think he?” Koz ran a finger across his throat. “No! No way! He’s just—” Izzy’s sobs filled the quiet space, and she waited for Koz to respond, to console her, but there was nothing. Turning to him, the sadness filling her soul receded. His head was down, his eyes tilted up at her, a look Izzy knew all too well. “What are you not telling me?” she asked, and he exhaled a hard breath. “I don’t think your cousin was delusional.” He walked to the couch and pulled the video up on her laptop. “I showed this footage to Laurie, who showed it to the sponsors. They want this story bad, said that if we didn’t get more proof, they’d find someone who could.” Izzy joined him on the couch. “What are you talking about? What footage?” “Here, let me show you.” Koz played Raul’s video frame by frame. The camera faced the woods and there were three shadowed figures floating between the trees. Their forms sparked out and retracted, twisted, and turned like tendrils of smoke as they surrounded Raul and drew closer, closer, and closer. The blood in Izzy’s veins froze in terror. “You messed with this.” Koz rolled his eyes. “I think you know me better than that.” She popped up from the couch and paced as anger switched to fear and back again. “People who look for trouble always find it.” The warning whispered through her mind, and she dropped her head into her hands. “We have to get to the tracks.” *** Standing near the tracks where Raul shot the video, Izzy tilted her head up to the stars. It was 3:33 in the morning, the same time stamped on the footage. Izzy and Koz had set up Infrared and Thermal cameras on either side of the rails along with various microphones, EMF meters, and running lights. Hunched over a table with multiple monitors and their laptops, Koz mashed buttons preparing to capture footage of something Izzy still couldn’t process. Scanning the darkness, she searched for her cousin and froze. Selena Rodriguez, the owner of the orthopedic shoes, appeared between the iron rails holding her granddaughter, Shauna’s hand. Their feet were bare, their eye sockets empty pools of darkness and half their faces slid down their skulls. Izzy’s face blanched and her mouth dried, her tongue like sandpaper. “K… k… Koz!” He turned toward the direction of her eyes, and his own eyes widened to platters. Forcing her feet to move, she ran to him. “Check the feed!” He jumped, focused, and pressed multiple buttons as Izzy slid to his side, her chest heaving and her mouth gulping air. Adrenaline rushed through her veins, bile burned her throat, and she gripped the table to keep from blacking out. The thermal and infrared readings went crazy on the monitor, and she pinched her eyes closed before opening them again. The apparitions floated above the ground, their twisted faces focused on her and only her. Shauna’s cracked lips moved. “He’ll make your dreams come true,” she said. Tony appeared next. His eyes like doorways to an abyss. “He’ll make your dreams come true,” he repeated turning to another figure behind him. Raul emerged from the darkness, his face sad and his sunken eyes staring at Izzy. “He’ll make your dreams come true,” he said, and she lunged for the tracks, the scream from her lips a torrent wave that she could no longer hear. Koz grabbed her arm and pulled her back to the table. “It’s too late. You can’t save him.” Tears streamed down her face as she wrenched from the grip and approached the tracks. He kicked the ground— “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” — and let her go. Standing at the rail, Izzy looked down and wrung her hands, pushing a heavy ball of dread down her throat. Memories of Raul’s devious smile flashed through her mind, along with moments of quick wit, nights huddled together watching horror movies, and promises that no matter what, they would never leave the other behind. Staring at Raul’s deformed face, her stomach dropped like a stone. There was no hope in his eyes anymore, no light. Lifting her face to the sky, she cried to the stars, begging for another answer. Nothing came. Tony nudged her. “He’ll make your dreams come true.” She turned to his elongated face swaying in the wind. “Your dream was to become a monster?” she asked, and he backed away confused. “To be rich,” he said, his voice softer. “I wanted to be a famous writer and move my abuela to Arizona.” The elastic face gathered; the wrinkles soothed revealing the real Tony. She turned to Selena and her granddaughter, their bodies hunched and frail. “And you?” Shauna whimpered; her lips no longer cracked, and her youthful face restored. “I wished to be with my parents again. They died in a car accident.” Tears rolled down Izzy’s cheeks. “And Selena, you wished to have Shauna back?” “Claro que si.” The woman’s brown eyes returned. “I wanted her to be safe.” The trickster had come to all of them in their sleep, making empty promises and waiting for their desperation to lead them here, between the lines of what was and what could be. Releasing a hard breath, Izzy wrapped Raul in her arms and cried into his shoulder. The sinews of flesh had already begun to break down and decay. There was no saving his life. She understood that now. But unlike the trickster, she intended to keep her promise. “Tell me what to do cousin. Tell me and I’ll do it,” she cried, and Raul whispered in her ear. She pushed away from him, her eyes wide. “No! I can’t!” A tear rolled down his elastic face. “You have to let me go Izz. Let us all go.” She turned to Koz, and he shook his head. “Please. Don’t do this.” “If not me, then who?” she said and stepped over the rail, choked back the tears flooding her soul and called out. “Tezcatlipoca. Deity of Dreams. I summon thee.” Tezcatlipoca floated out of the woods. He had catlike features, the angles of his face sharpened to points, and there were three black bands painted across his forehead, nose, and chin. A large fedora, spotted like a jaguar, covered his head and he wore a pin striped zoot suit with a gold chain that hung from the left pocket. The same type of suit her father and uncles wore when they were young. Cholo fashion, as they called it. Shaking with grief, sorrow, anger and rage, Izzy gave Raul a stern nod and turned to Tezcatlipoca lifting her chin. “I want to make my wish.” He transformed into a naked headless body and his chest split displaying a red jeweled heart. The two flaps opened, then closed, opened, then closed. The wind howled around her, and marigolds filled the air turning putrid in her nose. In a swift motion, she reached between the flaps of flesh, and ripped the heart from his chest. It beat warm in her hands, the jeweled edges rubbing softly against her skin. Taking a deep breath, Izzy swallowed all the fear and doubt that rattled her bones. Five years she studied stories, myths, and folklore, but never once believed any of it. Raul did and went to the ultimate length to prove that there were things beyond humanity. That just because Izzy refused to see them, didn’t mean that gods and myths didn’t exist. But it came at a price and the damage was done. There was only one thing left to do. Searching for strength, she squeezed the jeweled heart in her hands and twisted back to Raul. “I love you,” she whimpered, and Raul smiled. His smile. “No shit,” he smirked. “I love you too. Thank you for finding us.” Stepping over the rail, beyond the line of what could be, the heart in Izzy’s hand turned to ash. Transforming back into the dapper man that greeted her, Tezcatlipoca’s eyes glowed deep red and Selena stepped between him and Izzy; her form restored and glowing bright. “Your power comes from forgotten souls, but now we are remembered. Release us sorcerer. Release us to find our rightful place.” Tezcatlipoca waved a clawed hand through the night air and with a collective sigh, Selena, Shauna, Tony, and Raul swirled into the sky bringing the morning light. Stumbling to Koz behind the monitor, Izzy wiped her face as he rewound the recording to check the footage. Her eyes filled with angry tears. The were no apparitions or sleek dressed god, only a coyote sitting between the tracks. Lifting her head to the trickster, she whimpered. “No.” Tezcatlipoca’s laughter filled the sky, and he pulled out the watch at the end of the gold chain. Tapping it with a long-darkened nail, he tipped the fedora to Izzy. “Next time Ms. Johnson, next time,” he said and walked back into the shadows of the woods. Izzy fell to her knees and screamed. The trees rustled with her grief, the foxes yipped at her pain and the black birds cawed, the ragged sound bolstering the rage seething at her core. But nobody cared. Looking up at the tears flowing from Koz’s eyes, she pushed herself up from the ground. “Beware the coyote,” she said and dropped her head in defeat. *** The next morning, Izzy received the call. She had set the tormented souls free, but it came at a cost. The podcast was given to another host. Parking in the empty lot of the library, she headed inside. The librarian waited for her. “I take it you found what you were looking for?” she asked, and Izzy dropped her head. “I’d like to make an entry.” Pulling the wire-bound book from behind her back, the librarian led her to the table, and Izzy sat as the woman flipped to the three empty pages. She began. “His name was Raul Apadaca. He died on the tracks, a victim of Tezcatlipoca, an Aztec deity, shapeshifter, and trickster that is very real, but his promises are not. Yet he continues to claim forgotten souls because he believes that nobody cares. He is wrong.” She looked up to the librarian, and the librarian finally smiled.