My grandma fled Spain six days before the fascist regime won the Civil War, with only her outfit and a few Spanish coins for luggage.She did it in the middle of the night to avoid the patrols that were sent to hunt her down.
In a time when the Catholic church was the law, seers became one of the most dangerous criminals, and among her northern peers, she had been the most attuned to the signs. That's what she called them; that's what I call them, too. The little bits of reality that start making no sense are usually a warning: they make themselves known three times before disaster strikes, in groups of three.
Fifteen days before my grandma ran away, she saw the first sign. Her elder had tasked her with performing a ritual to heal the sickness that threatened the life of a baby, and she was taking him to the woods. A single raindrop fell from the sky, sliding down her forehead, and travelling along her face. When she wiped it, she discovered her palm was red. She looked at the sky, and saw a single crow flying backwards. A snake slithered through her feet. She didn't finish the ritual.
Ten days before my grandma ran away, she saw the second sign. She was cooking the fish she'd caught in the river, her feet and skirt still wet and forming a puddle on the ground. A bright golden light bathed the cabin, even though the sun was nowhere to be seen. It extended out of her chest and shot outwards in all directions. When she approached the window, she saw the light blanketing the whole town. A hand gripped her shoulder, although she knew her elder wasn't home and she was alone. The fire went out like it was smothered. My grandma threw out the fish, too scared to eat.
Seven days before my grandma ran away, her elder died. When she told me the story, she was sure her death was meant to unleash the ties that attached her to her hometown. It freed her. During the preparations for her funeral, my grandma took out three beetles out of the dead body. A fox cried outside.
The next day, she left her home behind, her remaining family, her work... And never looked back. I know now that she never dared look back because she was scared. I would be too.
In fact, I was terrified then.
The tombstones of my parents rested on a hill in the local cemetery. Two large pieces of marble dug beside each other, each engraved with a name. Mary and Thomas Cassidy. Forever together, the engraving told of a romance that transcended death.
"Oh my god," Silas whispered, covering his mouth.
"Don't look," I ordered, covering his eyes with my hand.
"It's full of them."
At that time, the possibility of the scene before me behind a sign didn't cross my mind. I was too preoccupied with being strong for my little brother when I felt like crumbling to the ground. My breath hitched while I scanned the thousands of dead rats festering our parents' tombs. If it was a cosmic joke, I wanted it to deliver the punchline so I could finally laugh. But as much as I closed my eyes and wished it all away, I couldn't change reality.
The green grass had molded into a grey fuzzy layer over which the animals lay like they were resting over clouds. The flowers leaning against the marble were rotten, their stems pointing to the ground and the petals scattered around in withered forms. It shouldn't be possible for flowers to die in two hours. I took out my phone to check the messages. Yes, I was right, Aunt Petunia had texted me a photo of the freshly cut flowers—she kept a garden that she loved dearly, and on the anniversary of their deaths, she cut the flowers she deemed the prettiest to decorate their tomb.
Of course something wasn't right, I could feel the distant sensation tingling in my arms as rain started pouring in, at first in small droplets and then in an ascending staccato that forced us to bring out the umbrellas. But I'd be damned if my abuela's story crossed my mind in that instant. Although panic can make you forget a specially scary situation in the long term, I probably thought of a million different explanations for what we'd just seen, some of them more paranormal than others. The thing I remember clearly, however, was the unfathomable desire to run away.
One could choose to believe—or not—in ghosts and monsters. I understood why people would want to go on their entire life without as much as considering their existence, and it's probably the path I'd chosen had I not been born with the ability to see. People tend to fear what they don't understand, and in this case, they're probably right to do so. But there's something you never ignore, no matter if you believe in science, in God or in monsters. Something in my gut told me we shouldn't have been in the cemetery that day, and I trusted my instinct like I trusted my abuela's judgement.
"Let's go," I whispered, gently pushing my brother away. "I have to work tonight."
"You're not going to do anything?" Silas spun around to face me, but his eyes travelled somewhere behind me, and I immediately knew the scene was pulling his attention. I cupped his cheek, and that seemed to bring him out of the spell the place had cast upon him.
"I'm not implying I'm going to leave mom and dad like that. But I'm going to take you home first." A weak laugh escaped my lips. "It's already enough that one of us has nightmares, I wouldn't want you to join my nightly club. Don't worry, I got this." Silas didn't shake away my embrace as we walked back to the bus station.
Later, when my brother was having dinner, I disappeared into the bathroom to call the cemetery keeper. I didn't find it surprising that my parents' tomb was the only one affected by the "strange illness" that seemed to kill the animals and foliage at once, but when I disconnected the call, I felt deeply disturbed.
"You rest today. And call me if something troubles you. I'll leave work if I have to."
Silas grinned. "What? Like a ghost?" He feigned a goosebump. "I'm so lucky I'm not a seer. That's scary as heck."
It was ironic my brother was scared of ghosts over anything else. In the scale of cosmic horror, I would've classified them as the least concerning. For the first time in the week that had passed, I remembered the boy.
"The fact you don't see them doesn't mean they're not there. That they cannot hurt you." I dared not explain further. "Do you have the Holy Water?"
Silas dug in the pocket of his pajamas, and then showed me a small vial with a proud face like it was a trophy. "See? I always keep it within me. But... doesn't stealing it make it not holy anymore? Why don't you bless a bathtub of water? We wouldn't be so desperate for supply..."
I frowned. "Do I look like a priest to you? I'm going to work. Call me if there's anything—anything. I mean that."
It didn't just feel right to leave him like this. Something didn't feel right at all.
**********
At work, Mr. Jen assigned me to wash the dishes, which I couldn't have been more happy with, as it provided me with the perfect opportunity to think as well as avoid small chit chat with my stressed coworkers. I secretly kept my phone in the pocket of the uniform. I couldn't shake away the sensation that something was about to happen, and the eight-hour shift passed by tortuously slow. Each second seemed to last a few hours, and the heavy worry that made it difficult to breathe didn't ease the wait. Each minute on the clock, my mind invented new scenarios at home and each and every loud sound startled the shit out of me.
At any moment, the phone could ring, and it kept me on edge all night until it was time to go home. I called Silas. Four times. I didn't even change out of my work clothes, instead opting to take the bag and run out of the restaurant like I was a thief. The biting cold stopped being a problem once my body warmed up, and my steps became quicker, although my lungs started to burnt, and it was a question of how much time I could drag my body before I passed out on the street. I needed to see that Silas was safe.
I only stopped running when a dark figure blocked my path. "Where are you going so fast? Are you trying to avoid us?"
"Peter—I was—Is it the end of the month already?" I looked at the calendar on my phone. Fuck. "I can have it for tomorrow. I—It's been a hard couple of days—"
"I don't care." Peter said, effectively shutting me down. I stuttered a few syllables until he pinned me down with a death stare. "What do you have now?"
I scrambled to unzip the bag, but I was probably too slow for his liking because he made an impatient gesture with his hand and two of his goons reached out of the shadows and one of them snatched the bag to search for himself. They were a foot taller than me, and built like tanks, and so I watched impotently as they shook the contents to the ground.
A book landed on a puddle. My street clothes ended up in a pile over a block of snow. The wallet fell with a loud thud, and Peter crouched down to pick it up. "What do you have here?"
I was too scared to speak, really. If I told him I had thirty dollars, he'd probably kill me on the spot. Still, he was going to find out soon enough. I stayed put as Peter looked inside.
"Are you the witch?" The fourth figure appeared out of nowhere. He was covered in shadow but he carried himself with poise and a confidence I wish I had in that moment. When he stepped closer, I took a step back.
I didn't miss the shift in Peter's stance, the slight uncomfortable fear that replaced his cockiness. If Peter was already bad enough, what kind of bad was he scared of? And then I had my answer as the stranger finally came into the light.
The kind of bad that made a hundred demons follow you.