“‘And if you will indeed obey my commandments that I command you today, to love the Lord your God, and to serve him with all your heart and with all your soul, he will give the rain for your land in its season, the early rain and the later rain, that you may gather in your grain and your wine and your oil. And he will give grass in your fields for your livestock, and you shall eat and be full.’ —Deuteronomy, chapter 11, verse 13-15. You see, it says right here how the Lord plans to make good on his promises of miracles. He put angels in the form of mayors, governors alike, to protect you from sin, so that you may live a life of prosperity.”
We walk out into the living room and I’m in a haze. The idea I’m living in a house with so much tragic history, right next to one with dead bodies still inside, makes me want to vomit. A part of me wants to go running into Mom’s arms. This should be enough of a reason to move. But I made a promise to Yusef not to tell anyone. Telling would only throw more people in prison. And I still haven’t fessed up about Erika.
“You will always harvest what you plant in the Lord’s will. As you sow, so shall you reap. Those who do not follow the Lord’s will, will reap what they sow. That’s why if you call now, I will send you these anointed HOLY SEEDS. . . .”
Pop-Pop is on a cordless phone, his voice light and chipper in a way I’ve never heard before.
“Ahh yes, this here is Mr. Brown, senior. Calling to put in this week’s order.”
We stand behind him, listening to him order five packets of Scott Clark’s miracle seeds as the infomercial plays on.
“Why’d you let him waste his Social Security money on them stupid seeds?” I ask in a whisper.
Yusef shrugs, taking two sodas out of the fridge. “He’s old. We let him do what he wants. Besides, he’s been at it for years.”
“Can’t believe all these years and no one has gotten their seeds to grow. This man is running the biggest scam in Cedarville and the FBI hasn’t scooped him up.”
He sips, staring at Pop-Pop. “He thinks his seeds don’t grow for him because of what he’s done. So . . . he’s spent his whole life trying to help other people grow their seeds, get their miracle.”
I shake my head. “Scott Clark is setting people up to fail and have them pay for their own failure. But how does he expect anyone to reap if they can’t sow those bogus seeds? It’s total bullshit.”
Yusef sighs. “Truth is, the ground is spoiled here, always has been.” He looks at me. “And you can’t grow where you’re not wanted.”
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Something hard hits the floor above me.
But that’s impossible, because nothing is above me. Nothing but the roof.
Thump thump ba-thump.
There it goes again. Like a large sack of rice landed on the ceiling.
Or a body . . .
I stare up, willing my eyes to see through the plaster, and realize I’ve been trying to move my arms this entire time and can’t.
Move, I order all my limbs, but they are defiant. It’s like my body is asleep but my mind is fully awake. Something is pressing me into the mattress, making it harder and harder to shake free.
From the corner of my eye I can see a faint glow of orange coming from my window. The glow becomes brighter, blossoming, setting the dark room aglow.
That’s when I see her. Standing in the corner, dressed in her apron, her hair in pin curls, hands dusted with baking flour, arm burnt to a crisp, drool dripping off her lip.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My lungs are cement bricks. Smoke drifts through the open window.
Thump. Thump.
She stands hunched over, a feral look in her eyes. The orange light grows brighter, revealing her face. And it isn’t drool dripping down her lip. It’s blood. It spills onto the floor by her bare feet. My stomach reels, gag reflexes pulling at the muscles in my neck, but I still can’t move. She throws a limp arm across her chest, hitting the blackened arm, and peels her dead skin back like a banana, exposing bloody muscle.
The Hag! She’s here! And she wants my skin.
As if reading my thoughts, she straightens, and I can hear every bone in her spine click into place.
“Fire!” Alec screams, footsteps racing down the stairs. “Everyone out!”
Wait. That’s his real voice. This isn’t a dream!
“Marigold, hurry,” Mom calls as footsteps echo through the hall.
They’re leaving me. They don’t know I can’t move! I can’t move, I can’t move. I’m . . . frozen. Stuck. Trapped.
Thump thump. The room glows brighter.
The stench of the Hag mixed with thick smoke makes my eyes water and I’m afraid I’ll choke on my own vomit before she kills me. She takes one step, her foot covered in black soot.
“Help,” I scream, but it comes out as a strangled gargle.
Another step. It’s hard for her to walk, but she’s determined to have me.
I bite my tongue, holding my breath until I’m blue. She takes another step. The fire next door is jumping to our house, peppering the roof. The smoke is suffocating.
Heart thrashing, I focus on moving one limb, straining, contracting every organ inward. If I can just break free then I can . . .
Thump thump. THUMP!
A painful exhale shoots out of my mouth. I cough and hack up air. The pressure easing, my limbs now free, I flop out of bed, falling flat on my face.
Run! You have to run!
But as soon as I look up . . . she’s gone. The room dark and freezing.
Thump thump.
Gasping, I stumble to my feet, legs like jelly, and pull myself to the window. The house next door is still boarded up tight . . . and not on fire. The giant tree that separates our properties looms above us; a loose branch tangled in vines dangles like a carrot, dancing on our roof. The wind must have knocked it free.
“Shit,” I grumble.
Buddy treks downstairs into the kitchen with me. I refill the teakettle and click on the burner. No sense in trying to sleep after all that. Caffeine isn’t the best cure for panicked nerves, but I never want to close my eyes again. If that was real, I could have died in the fire. I have to find some way to control this sleep paralysis.
I set the instant coffee, sugar, almond cream, and my favorite coffee mug out on the counter. With another few minutes to kill before the water boils, I stroll around the perimeter of the first floor, taking it in as if for the first time, massaging my temples, trying to rub the images of Ms. Suga’s face out of my mind. The dream was so vivid. It felt like I was swimming through mud, sticks and branches caught in my throat. I could’ve died. . . .
Stop it, Mari! She’s not real. This is all stress!
At the front door, I quickly peek through the curtains. Sweets smiles at me from her new home on the porch. And in the distance, the dark truck is parked in the same spot again. Too far away and deep in the shadows to peep a license plate. I move into the sitting room, hoping for a better angle but . . . why should I pretend not to see this jerk? Whoever it is should know that this weird-ass snooping isn’t cool. Plus, after that horrible nightmare, I’ve had enough of the creepy bullshit.
I yank open the front door and burst into the street at full speed. The truck flips on its brights, blinding me, then makes a shrieking U-turn, speeding away. Too fast for me to sprint after in my flip-flops.