Devour

Aurora was hunched over in the dark on her fuzzy blue rug, eyes on her small television set. Sit up straight, you’re not a question mark, her mother’s voice echoed like an irritating emergency siren in her ears. The only light present in her bare bedroom was the light of the screen and one window, stripped of its curtains. Sleeping Beauty was the only VHS she hadn’t boxed up quite yet. She rubbed her eyes as the monotone narrator told the story of the Disney princess: They called her Aurora, he droned. She shook her red-haired head, questioning why her namesake couldn’t have been a little cooler. Her eyes floated away from the screen and out the window. She shakily pushed herself up from her fuzzy rug–a baby deer walking for the very first time–and stared out the window, the film still continuing behind her. She towered over the boxes in her empty room and nearly had to hunch over to see out the window.

It was pouring rain, unusual for San Francisco in the beginning of August. She slowly drummed her unpainted fingernails–tap-tap-tap–on the glass; the warmth from the fingers fogged up the window a little. She gazed, eyes so full of boredom she could cry the color beige, out the window, trying to ignore the battlefield that was her living room in that moment.

She wished her mother could reveal where exactly the two of them were moving to as she tapped. The two had been talking about the move for a few weeks, and she told Aurora to be completely packed up by the end of the month, which was just about two weeks away. Aurora was pretty much done, but now was desperate for something fun to do.

She thought of her best friend Carmen who used to live next door. On any normal summer day, the two of them would perhaps be walking down Buchanan to Japantown to explore, or studying at the library around the corner if school was in session. Maybe setting her old Barbies on fire in the bathroom. But Carmen’s family sold their house in June and moved to China, to be closer to her sick grandparents. Aurora glanced over her shoulder, almost wincing, at the boxes climbing her bedroom walls like ivy and was curious, yet suspicious, as to why her mother wasn’t telling her where they were moving.

She was surprised that she found herself thinking of another neighbor, Peter. Her freckled face flushed as she scratched her cheek. His family was from the South, like Aurora’s mother, who was adamant that she stay away from them, especially Peter. He was going to be a senior at Aurora’s school that year. She didn’t know much about him, except that he played football, and he smiled at her every time they crossed paths getting mail or whatever else. Something else Aurora did know about him was that she wanted to know more.

Aurora suddenly clutched her chunky brown sweater, where her stomach was, and peered at the cracked green clock beside the mattress–noon–she realized she hadn’t eaten yet.

She exhaled, and turned away from her sullen sleeping space to face her bedroom door. Aurora knew her parents were at it again, hashing out the details of their separation and eventual divorce, and the last thing she wanted to do was get in the middle of all that. She had avoided going anywhere near that war zone all day. Her hungry belly roared in displeasure, so she paused Sleeping Beauty and cracked the door. Maybe not to take the plunge into the murkiness of a yelling match, but to listen at least–she couldn’t quite see them from her bedroom. The smell of cigarette smoke seeped in as Aurora leaned her ear closer to the opening.

“…but Evelyn, nothing about you and Rory moving to Tennessee makes any sense to me! It will only make this process more complicated.” Aurora’s dad reasoned, firmly, using the nickname he knew his daughter preferred. His style of arguing was in a way that was courteous of others, but he was still skilled in conveying his point calmly.

“I don’t care, Sean. I’m calling the airline to reserve the tickets tonight,” Aurora’s mother retorted. She, on the other hand, argued with her opponent opposite a wide, rushing river. “I need to be with my dad right now.”

Aurora’s stomach dropped. Tennessee? A true San Franciscan, The City was all she knew, and the only thing she wanted to know. Aurora shut the door, making sure she did so softly, plopping down on the floor and staring up at her empty ceiling. All of the posters that she normally had hung up there were packed away in boxes. After scoffing to herself at her mother’s comment about needing her dad–wouldn’t it occur to her that Aurora would need her dad, too?–she grabbed her Walkman from a box, pressed “play,” and shut her eyes. She liked being in Woodland when she was a kid, the town her mother grew up in. That was when she, her mother, and father visited her grandparents, a mere month before her grandmother’s health took a turn for the worse. Through a teenaged lens, it was no place she wanted to be, or live, at all. It occurred to her, though, it was the last time her family of four was truly happy.

***

The city of San Francisco in San Francisco County, California, was still sopping wet later that same August from the strange rain storm. Fog rolled in from the ocean as the dark, wet day turned into a darker, wetter night. Even still, the faint lights of the sister bridges could still be seen through the damp, thick blanket. The constant flowing water in the bay and the rolling waves along Ocean Beach surrounded the Fog City like a loving hug, and the city lights twinkled like little kisses. Windows of the various eclectic homes along Buchanan Street, sprinkled with drops of water, softly illuminated the bumping, hilly road as it stretched from Japantown to the Marina. The coldness on the outside of these homes made the bright, orange-tinted insides look that much cozier.

Along Buchanan, the block between Washington and Jackson Street was home to a mixture of friendly families and a warm community; a hearth of safety. Many of the people who lived in this neighborhood had impressive college backgrounds and well-paying jobs, but they weren’t snobs. Something about this particular block had a unique, almost magical feeling, particularly how well the families meshed and interacted together. One family, in particular, was in the process of changing forever–again.

Aurora and her mother hurried from the front door of their home into the taxi that awaited them, attempting to avoid the drops of rain like they were bombs, to no avail. The heavy backpack, oversized suitcase, the dumping rain, and Aurora’s knitted magenta scarf absorbing the falling water like a sponge caused her to feel she was sinking. It was as if the city was slowly being engulfed into the ocean, and was making a great effort to swallow her, too. Aurora stopped for a moment to get a better grip on one of the suitcases in her hand. Out of exhaustion, she bent at the hip, forming a ninety-degree angle, accepting her fate. She was a rock at the base of a waterfall.

“Let’s go, Aurora,” her mother demanded without stopping or looking back, her footsteps as she descended the steps causing her voice to shake. Among her luggage, she was clutching her savior–an umbrella–protecting her hair and makeup. There was a coldness to her tone that rivaled the weather’s. The rain caused Aurora’s light-colored red hair to cling to her face. She looked up at the sky, causing the overhead downpour to fill her brown eyes with water, and then looked to her mother shoving suitcases into the bright yellow taxi. Rubbing her eyes, she turned to look at herself bound to her front door, preventing her from entering that fucking taxi.

Aurora wanted so badly to drop everything in her hands and run back in her home, and give her dad a big hug. That night, they could have watched some mindless comedy, laughing together, erasing their worries surrounding what was happening. Maybe that weekend, they could have fit in one of their bimonthly fishing trips before school started. Or, maybe drive up to Mendocino to visit her other grandparents. The unfortunate reality was she was simply a child, her fate subject to the haphazard whirlpool of her mother’s will.

“I’m not gonna say it again, kid!” Shouted her cross-armed mother from inside the taxi, the window cracked a smidge so her voice could carry. Aurora snapped out of it, ran to the taxi, and shoved her suitcase and backpack into the trunk beside her mother’s belongings. From inside the taxi that would take them to San Francisco International Airport, Aurora shifted in her seat to face her home once more. She squinted, and swore she saw her dad’s silhouette in one of the windows on the second floor. A tear slid down her cheek. She carried the too-sudden realization in her throat that it might’ve been the last time she’d see him for a long time.

She looked down in her lap, twisting the lighter she swiped that belonged to her dad in her pocket. She didn’t know what she was going to use it for yet, but she’d certainly use it for something.

The ride to the airport was silent; the streets were quiet and empty. It was still raining a considerable amount, but significantly less hard. The driver would occasionally try making small-talk, only to be shot down quickly by Aurora’s mother with dry, one-word sentences. Aurora almost felt bad for the cabbie; he was just doing his job. She sighed. The tension inside of the vehicle was a rubber band, stretched as far as possible. She looked to her mother, who was staring straight ahead out of the windshield, craning her neck to see if the cab driver would make a mistake.

Aurora’s mother was beautiful, the epitome of true blonde Southern beauty, but with added severity and darkness. Her hair was immaculately curled and teased like Michelle Pfeiffer. She was an immovable glacier, somehow thriving in the soupy humid air. There was something to her that Aurora couldn’t pinpoint, despite being raised by the woman. The cross necklace around the belle’s neck flashed under each streetlight they passed, resting motionless against a cream turtleneck sweater. She thought it was important to keep Jesus close to one’s heart. Thanks to her dad, her mother’s jurisdiction over what jewelry Aurora could wear had little power as she got older. But he wasn’t with them anymore, and there was an unspoken expectation that she would wear a cross necklace herself upon arriving to see her grandfather, who felt similarly about Jesus. Luckily, the cross necklace she used to have to wear was hidden under the floorboards of the apartment that Carmen’s family used to own.

“Sit up straight, Aurora,” Her mother mumbled, without breaking her gaze out the windshield. Aurora looked up at her mother. She made a great effort not to roll her eyes, so she just had a confused look on her face.

“It’s Rory, Mom,” Aurora whispered, looking away, out her window. She didn’t fix her posture.

Aurora’s mother sighed, and turned to her daughter like she was an inconvenience. It was as if, in her mother’s world, the car would explode if she stopped backseat driving in her head.

“I named you Aurora. If I had the intention of calling you something other than Aurora, I would have named you that something else instead. Sit up, please.” She spoke quickly, very plainly, matter-of-factly, as if it were common sense. As if nicknames were some other-worldly invention. Aurora said nothing, trying to pretend the seat next to her was empty. Her mother resumed her gaze on the road in front of them.

Upon reaching the cold, empty airport, Aurora had to rip herself away from the leather car seat as if she was a rat on a glue trap. Normally, she loved to fly. The last time she was on a plane was to visit her aunt, her father’s sister, in Los Angeles. She, her aunt, and her mother and father went to Disneyland, some of the beaches–so much warmer than the Bay Area–and explored the city. But this time, there was not much else occupying her brain space other than dreading the goddamn South.

After being checked in, there was nothing left to do but await the last flight from San Francisco International to Denver International. From there, they would switch planes to fly to McGhee Tyson Airport, just south of Knoxville, Tennessee. Woodland was just thirty miles away. Aurora’s mother had a rented car waiting for them, and they would arrive at the house before the movers would with all of their belongings that following morning.

It was only 6:30 PM, but it felt like it could have been 11:00. Aurora twisted her ponytail in the waiting chair, not able to focus on her book, nor her Billy Idol tape in her Walkman. She knew she didn’t want to go to sleep on the plane–it would be too difficult. Her mother rested her eyes in the seat beside her. She shut the book, placing her elbows on her knees (still damp from the rain), trying to remember how their last trip to Woodland went.

***

It had been summertime, probably ten years ago. There were fireflies and other big bugs all around their grassy yard, something that she wasn’t used to in California. Normally, a kid would be freaked out by the unusual insects, but Aurora, about to be a first-grader, loved them. She chased the grasshoppers like a puppy, trying to cup them in her hands, as her grandfather helped, showing her how to do it best. The air felt thick and heavy, also different from California. Her parents and uncle caught up on the patio with a few beers, seated around a firepit. Their grandmother watched them play as if the other three adults didn’t exist.

“I caught one, Grandpa! I caught one!” celebrated little Aurora, running to him, jar in hand. Blades of grass stuck to her bare feet.

The property extended past just the patch of grass in the backyard; there was a thick, uninhabited forest on the other side of a small creek. Ribbit-ribbit, the little amphibians called as if talking to the young girl directly. Aurora’s eyes lit up even in the dark of the Tennessee evening. “Can you show me how to look for frogs, Grandpa?” She looked up at him, eyes wide and full of excitement.

“No, no. Don’t go down to that creek, Aurora.” Her mother demanded from the patio. “You’ll get filthy, and ruin your nice church dress.” Her grandfather chuckled to himself, and leaned down to address his granddaughter.

“I’d better head in. Aurora, hand me your jar, will you? I’ll hold onto it while you catch ’em frogs,” He said, quietly, with a wink. He was a tall man, so full of life and energy, and had loving, friendly brown eyes like her mother, and like Aurora. He always wore a cap. Aurora handed him the jar, gave him a peck on the cheek, and he headed inside to bed.

Looking over her shoulder, she confirmed to herself that their mother wasn’t paying attention, and she kicked off her Mary Janes, and peeled off her socks. Aurora walked carefully to the side of the shallow creek. It was dark out at this point, and she could hardly see a few feet in front of her, but the frogs weren’t afraid to make their presence known. Aurora squatted down on her knees, reaching into the creek to try to grab hold of a frog as the cool breeze, the last goodbyes of spring, gave her relief from the humid air of summer ready to emerge. The creek wasn’t a rushing river by any means, but still made a pleasant trickling noise. The water felt cool compared to the thick, wet air. Aurora had both hands in the creek, the tips of her dress completely submerged.

She looked down at her dress and softly giggled. She removed the orange and yellow sundress, leaving just a pair of underwear on. Now that her dress was out of the way, Aurora was able to inch deeper into the creek, hoping to have greater luck in finding a frog–her mother’s stern voice entered her mind, and the girl began to feel a little guilty. Her limbs froze and her mind wandered away from streams, frogs, and bugs: What if I get in trouble?

The trickling of the creek couldn’t drown out the sudden sound of slow, shuffling of footsteps behind her. Aurora’s fear turned into a deep uneasiness. She turned her head, slowly and a little fearfully, and saw her grandmother behind her. Staring.

It was a blank stare. Her pink floral nightgown nearly touched the dirt, and her muddy slippers were scattered behind her in the grass. She breathed with her mouth, almost groaning, as saliva began to collect at the corners of her mouth. The old woman was motionless, for a moment, and completely silent other than the breathing. Aurora thought, for a moment, maybe she was going to tell her off for playing in the water. She then resumed the shuffle of her feet, moving herself slowly towards Aurora without a word. Her face looked like it would melt right off; her mouth began to open a little wider, stretching the wrinkly skin even more. Then Aurora noticed her eyes. Her pupils engulfed nearly all of her normally sharp blue eyes. There was no shine in them, not even from the moonlight. Getting a little bit too close, their grandmother stopped suddenly, once their mother approached, walking quickly down to the creek, a flashlight in hand.

“I thought I told you not to play down here,” she sighed. “Wait–why is your dress off? You know better, you’re a young lady for goodness sake.

“But, Mommy, I was only playing–” Aurora began, before being interrupted by her mother’s sharp exhale.

“Your uncle is here. Show yourself some respect,” she hissed, “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

***

Was that actually real? Or just her imagination? Aurora sat straight in the stiff waiting chair, stretching her legs. She hadn’t thought of that trip in years; all she did know was a month after returning to San Francisco after that trip, Aurora’s grandmother suffered a massive stroke, but survived–barely–despite never fully recovering. A year before Carmen moved to China, when Aurora’s parents began to consider divorce, her grandmother had a second stroke and passed away. She hadn’t spoken to her grandfather on the phone since then, either.

“Now boarding for Denver, 7:00 PM,” announced the attendant. Aurora shook her mother awake as the attendant repeated himself. She nodded, and the two gathered their belongings and prepared for their tiresome journey across the country.

***

Gravel crunched under the tires of their rented Ford Escort the morning they arrived. The car was black; Aurora wished her mother had rented the red one. She rubbed her sleepy eyes, wishing for a cup of coffee, wondering if her grandfather even drank coffee. They approached the wooden house where her mother and uncle were raised. Aurora knew how much being in Tennessee meant to her mother, but she didn’t care. She knew it was mean to feel that way, but she just wanted to be home.

“Be nice to your grandfather when you see him. It’s been hard for him since your grandmother passed,” Aurora’s mother advised, one hand on the steering wheel, the other fiddling with her necklace. Her makeup, despite traveling for the last twelve hours, was still perfect, as was her hair. Aurora nodded, despite being nervous to see him. She hadn’t seen him in person in ten years; what would they even talk about? Aurora looked down at her chest, and the cross necklace she was now wearing, a different one belonging to her mother. She wanted to take it off badly; she felt that something of this nature should be her choice. Aurora swallowed the thought and resumed looking out her window.

The gravel road in the backwoods of Woodland was lined with tall trees: oaks, sycamores, poplars, all a yellowish mossy green. Beyond the thin layer of trees next to the road was grassy clearings, with little wildflowers–purples, yellows, oranges–sprinkled throughout. Beyond those clearings was thick forest. The air was still. The smell of cigarette smoke from the previous renter filled the space inside the car, but beyond the car, the air smelled hot, and sweaty even though there were no people and hardly any houses.

A small creek followed the road, glittering in the morning sun. Aurora scratched her cheek in thought as the memories of the fresh, cool water trickling around her five-year-old ankles, the sounds of frogs croaking, bugs harmonizing, beer bottles clinking, grown-up chattering and laughter, and that ominous, spitty, breathy groan. As if to make the memories vanish, to no avail, Aurora clenched her eyelids together quickly. There was something so confusing to her about that summer; she couldn’t ignore how something about that night felt wrong. She scratched her scalp and deeper thoughts about her situation bombarded her brain like raindrops, and the necklace began to burn her neck.

She was pulled out of the water by her mother, nudging her shoulder.

“My God, Aurora, we’re here! Quit daydreaming and get your things.” Her mother sounded nervous–afraid. She must have been trying to get her attention for longer than Aurora thought. Her mother exited the car to talk with the movers as the shade from the large truck loomed over the rented Ford. Aurora quickly checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her bare face and unpierced ears were loud; she sighed, realizing she’d stand out among the pageant queens. She tried brushing her fingers through her thick red hair with no luck; it was a tangled mess. She looked down at her dark brown sweater and basic dark jeans, not knowing why she was suddenly so preoccupied with how she looked. Aurora shook her head to herself, exiting the car, and collecting her things from the trunk.

There he was, her grandfather, standing on the front porch. She avoided looking at him directly, nervous to begin interacting with him, but knew he was there in her peripheral vision. He wasn’t as tall as she remembered, normal with age, and was still wearing a cap. He looked stern. Normal for someone who just lost his wife? Aurora’s mother paid the movers, who then let themselves in the rural home to move a few belongings into a guest bedroom and some into the basement to be sorted out later. Aurora saw her mother smile as she approached her grandfather and gave him a hug. Seeing her smile was odd, but Aurora noticed she seemed actually happy. She dragged her heavy luggage towards the porch, and got a closer look at her grandfather, who had stopped hugging her mother and was studying his granddaughter. Aurora was nearly as tall as he was.

His face wasn’t just stern, but it looked hard like stone; almost angry, but not quite. The sense of humor was maybe not gone for good, but it wasn’t there now.

“Hello, Grandpa,” Aurora said softly, clearing her throat. She stood up as straight as she could, trying to show the necklace. He said nothing, giving her a small nod. There was something not quite right.

“Go find your room, Aurora, okay? We should start unloading this car,” Aurora’s mother gestured to the front door. Carrying one of her heavy bags through the door, she felt her grandfather’s eyes following her.

The room she hadn’t slept in in ten years was still pink. Aurora scrunched her nose at the putrid color of the walls–she had grown to detest the color. She threw her bag down and sat on the bed–dusty and a little uncomfortable. A cross hung above her bed caused the teenager to roll her eyes, and she decided to remove it, placing it in a dresser drawer. The picture on the bedside table of her when she was young next to her grandmother sent a chill down her spine–some deep feeling drew her eyes to the stream out the window and even through the summer heat, Aurora felt ice cold.

The front door opened, closed, and she heard the moving truck drive away. The voice of her mother intrigued her, though, bringing her back to the heat of the South. Déjà vu, she thought, as she placed an ear gently against the slightly cracked door, hearing her grandfather’s voice too. This time, she could see them talking

“How could you and Sean divorce, Evelyn? You know it’s a sin,” he stood towering above her, stiff as a skyscraper. His words were spitty and slurred and his shoulders were hunched forward. Aurora’s mother sat on the couch below, her perfect posture now ever-so-slightly hunched as well. She said nothing.

“I thought we raised you better than this; you don’t throw away a marriage,” he turned away from her, shaking his head. The interior of the living room was painfully brown with sprinkles of green and yellow. There were plenty of knitted blankets–likely handmade by Aurora’s grandmother. Oddly, Aurora preferred it to the pink.

It occurred to Aurora that she didn’t, in fact, know exactly why her parents were divorcing.

Aurora’s mother sighed. “He cheated, Dad.” Her voice was breaking–a scared little girl in her, long lost, made her way out. She didn’t make any eye contact with her father, who turned to face his daughter slowly. She cupped her face in her hands.

Aurora leaned away from the door, paralyzed. Dust and the smell of must from the room filled her deep breaths.

Her father–someone she admired greatly–could never do that. Aurora scoffed. Of course her mother had to have been lying. There’s no way that’s true! She shut the door in protest–almost angry at her mother for even speaking it. She knew her mother was cold, but not evil. Pulling herself up from the ground–maybe it was the jet lag combined with what she just heard; likely, it was sleep deprivation–she felt heavy, like a cloud about to begin to release rain. She thought of San Francisco.

She walked over to the pink bed that wasn’t hers, laid down, and sobbed.

***

Somehow, it seems, she had fallen asleep–it was late afternoon, but still very bright outside. After changing out of the plane clothes into some comfortable pajamas–including her dad’s SFSU sweatshirt, she rewound the tape in her Walkman–set on exploring the property. Eyeing her raincoat hung on a hook next to the door, she reached in the pocket and placed her fingers around the cool, metal lighter. Aurora examined the lighter, surprised she actually went through with stealing it, and placed it in her pajama pants pocket.

She was nervous to open the door, expecting someone to be out there waiting for her, but there was nobody in the living room. Aurora placed a hand over her chest and walked softly through the living room, towards the beige and brown kitchen, and out the squeaky back door. She turned to glance at the phone on the wall, wishing she could just talk to her dad–who was likely at work. She was reminded of the sickening thing her mother said about him. She moved on to the backyard, shaking her head at the thought as it passed.

The yard was as vast as she remembered, at least half an acre of field, with a slight hill rolling down to the stream where she played. Opposite the stream, the backyard property thrusted partially into a thick forest with a little white wooden shed. Aurora made a face at the shed–why would they build it across the stream instead of on the same side as the house? She shook her head, and descended the hill down towards the stream.

The water flow was normal, perhaps a bit less water than she remembered last time. The air in the South was thick and somehow wet, but the way it smelled began to grow on her. The wetness reminded her of the fog in The City. She picked up a long stick and poked it to and fro in the middle of the creek–hoping to see if some frogs would emerge.

“C’mon, bastards,” she whispered to herself. As she tread along the side of the creek, dragging her stick along beside her, she found herself face to face with the white shed.

The contrast between the shed and the darkness of the woods behind it made it seem as though it was glowing. Aurora’s stomach growled. A hollow noise, like wind howling, emitted softly from the shed. Aurora dropped the stick, backing away from the creek, and plopped down onto the grass as more details from her last trip to Woodland became clearer.

***

The morning after she had controversially tried to avoid her dress getting too wet, Aurora went down to the creek to play by herself. The little girl, not keen on following directions, chose to leave her dress off once again. Little Aurora learned the hard way, as the fresh, cool water trickled around her five-year-old ankles, that frogs may only emerge in the dark.

She turned to go back inside, only to see her grandma standing closely behind her.

“Oh, hello, Grandma,” Aurora said, her voice so much higher than her teenage-self. Her voice shook. Her grandmother said nothing, only wheezing and swaying ever so slightly. Her feet started shuffling closer, and Aurora got a better look at her grandmother that she didn’t notice that prior night.

Her eyes had no shine. They were completely dull. She had bright blue eyes normally, but her pupils consumed all of the usual color. Aurora cringed at the collection of spit at the corners of her mouth, backing away from her grandmother who lumbered closer, slowly shuffling her feet. Her grandmother outstretched a hand, placing it on young Aurora’s stomach and then shoulders. Aurora didn’t quite understand why, but she felt absolutely sick. Like she needed to take a bath.

The five-year-old was powerless in the situation. Her grandmother devoured her bare flesh with her hands and those eyes for what felt like an eternity. Aurora’s grandmother’s hands were rough and dry; her cracked fingernails scratching Aurora’s smooth skin.

Aurora felt as though this being that was touching her was nothing like her grandmother.

That night, when the young girl tried to fall asleep, something ate at the back of her brain, desperately telling her it was just her imagination–an apparition, just a fearful manifestation of her imagination. Was it?

***

The rocks in the grass dug into Aurora’s back as she laid by the creek, wiping tears from her eyes. She sat up, brushing dust off of her dad’s sweatshirt. She felt her face burning from the sun and she snapped her frog-hunting stick in half. Aurora had felt rage and contempt towards her mother after uncovering a memory long-since forgotten. How could she bring her daughter here after what happened to her?!

The sun was going down, and Aurora’s mother had advised her to be in bed early and not stay up late reading or listening to music. Although heeding her mother was the last thing she wanted to do, she obliged, firmly gripping the lighter in her pajama pants pocket.

Upon entering her room, she noticed the cross had been placed back on its spot on the wall. Aurora balled up her fists and removed it, throwing it back in the dresser drawer. Why could no one respect her wishes? Who was snooping in her room? She shook her head, got in the pink bed that wasn’t really her bed, shut off the light, and tried her best to just fall asleep, an impossible feat when she felt consumed by anger and disgust.

Midnight. Aurora’s eyes popped open; she was lying on her side, facing the wall. She supposed this is what happens when you’re forced into bed early. She rolled over to her other side to see her bedroom door wide open.

Light from the living room seeped in, and Aurora’s grandfather stood in the doorway, wheezing and spitting. Aurora gripped the sheets tightly.

She shut her eyes and opened them again.

He was still there.

Aurora rolled over sharply, puffs of dust popping up and making her eyes water, and pulled the covers over her head. She breathed rapidly.

“This isn’t real, this isn’t real,” she whispered to herself, cradling her head. After a moment or two, she peered over the covers.

He wasn’t in the doorway anymore; he was slowly shuffling closer to her bed, the groaning growing louder. His hands began to stretch forward, towards her. For the first time on this trip to Woodland, she got a good look at his eyes, friendly and light when she was a girl, now completely swallowed by the black pupils. Even in the dark, she could tell they had no shine.

“Go back to bed, Grandpa,” she stuttered, pulling the covers past her nose. He said nothing. Aurora closed her eyes, giving her mind one more chance to wake up and prove this has all been a dream–that she’s back home, sleeping over at Carmen’s, and some scary movie that this must truly be would still be playing on the small, black-and-white television.

When she opened her eyes, her grandfather sat at the foot of the pink bed. His face was drooping, mouth hanging open, and dull eyes right on her.

He placed an outstretched hand on her leg.

This had to have been a nightmare–some twisted figment of her own imagination coming back to hurt her. Aurora was completely frozen, and so was her grandfather. Aurora was surprised that despite being completely afraid, she couldn’t bring her leg away from her grandfather’s hand. She shut her eyes, clenching tightly, thinking of the greenery and smell of pollen on the dreadful car ride here.

Aurora opened her eyes after what felt like hours. She was now surrounded by a white room–ice cold.

“What is this,” she whispered, frantically staring at the nothingness all around her in all directions. Every inch of her skin had goosebumps and her hair was soaking wet, slicked back behind her, like she just got out of an ice bath. She ran her fingers over her arms, and was surprised to look down and see her pale, freckled body clothed in nothing; she shriveled her body, hunching as if to hide herself from the eyes of–who, exactly?

A pounding, sharp searing pain shot signals through her nervous system, originating from her forehead. A drop of blood dripped onto her hand. She touched where the pain was coming from, and found something embedded into her flesh, square in the middle of her forehead. Wincing at the touches, she felt the metal object and deduced something that made her want to vomit.

It was a cross. And it burned.

She removed her hand in terror from her head as the pain grew hotter, and suddenly, she couldn’t move.

A loud, booming voice from a source nowhere to be seen began to chant scriptures from church; it was like she was a little girl trapped in the rows at the chapel. But each person is tempted when he is lured and enticed by his own desire, the voice began. Its words and amplification choked and bounded her.

The pain increased; Aurora yelped and she found the darkness all around began to devour her–starting with her mind. Tears leaked out, and she had never felt so ugly.

From the floor, as the voice continued, something black pushed its way out of the invisible ground. Swarms of black, bubbling hands, dripping with something that burns her nostrils, claw their way all around her, reaching for her flesh. Tiny, wide-open eyes placed themselves all over her nude body.

Then desire when it has conceived gives birth to sin, and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death. The voice continues. The cross implanted in her head grew hotter, and Aurora continued to scream as the skin all around it began to rot and turn black. The voice stopped, and all she heard was the drippings from the hands squelching as they landed on the ground.

Aurora had never heard anything louder than her own screams in that moment, as the hands inched closer. And the eyes with no shine in them grew wider.

Just as one was about to graze her upper arm, she felt the warmth of the bed and the darkness of the bedroom return and everything was gone.

Her grandfather, the cross in her head–she gently touched her forehead just to be certain–the hands, the voice, all of it gone. She was back in her dark room. A sigh of relief, she flicked on her lamp and sat up, her forehead shiny from sweat. Cooler night air provided relief from the intense heat she just experienced. As she wiped the sides of her face with a tissue, she wondered if her grandfather really was in her bedroom. Was any of that real?

Her arms, despite the summer heat, formed goosebumps. Aurora was compelled to look up, and she noticed the damn cross back above her bed again. Grumbling and twisting her brows, she ripped it off the wall, threw it out the open window, and resumed sleeping once again–this time keeping the light on.

***

She turned over the lighter in her pocket and eyed the shed from the bottom of the hill the very next morning.

“This’ll show them,” she whispered, as she tore the cross necklace from her neck, tossing it into the creek. The smell of burnt plastic and sound of two teenage girls cackling filled her senses as she practically floated towards the shed–certain. Aurora felt something–finally–since being in this horrible place. As she carefully crossed the creek–her socks and white Nikes sitting dry in the sun–she wondered about how her life could have been different if she wasn’t forced into seven-minutes-in-heaven with Jesus. Without even touching the white shed, the door creaked open right in front of her.

Did she really want to mess around and do this?

Aurora swallowed, and pushed the door open. A stale breeze softly blew through her red bangs and ponytail, causing her to cough.

The shed was empty, save for a few rusty tools and a single light bulb, suspended from the ceiling. Otherwise, it was completely empty and very dark. Peering behind her and seeing neither her grandfather nor her putrid mother, she shut the door behind her–to conceal what she was about to do.

The lighter wasn’t cool in her hands anymore. It was hot–very hot–and coated in palm sweat as Aurora’s heart jumped up and down. Staring at the lighter, she flicked it on, and a small orange flame appeared. She smiled, nodded to herself, took a deep breath, and ignited the back wall of the shed. Aurora had never been so sure of something before. The orange flames, growing hotter and brighter, irritated her sun-burned face. A job well done. Making it up as she went along, she thought she could take the rental car back to the airport and see if her dad would get her a ticket home. Maybe unlikely, but then again, so was a sweet, partially Christian-raised girl committing arson. As Aurora went for the doorknob, it occurred to her that she had no clue how to drive, but she knew she felt ready to learn.

The doorknob did not give in either direction when she tried to exit the shed. The flames growing behind her revealed that the doorknob on the inside was rusted.

“Oh my God–Help! Please!” Aurora banged on the shed, smoke filling her lungs, eyes, mouth. She wondered how she could have been so careless. The wood was weak, but not weak enough for her to break. The tools, conducted heat flowing through them making them impossible to touch, would be of no use. Aurora slumped to the ground as the flames grew closer, so sure this was the end. She shut her wet, teary eyes, placed her hands in her head, and exhaled–coughing a little in the process, as she sobbed, anticipating death.

The heat and bright flames vanished. There was no damage done to the shed whatsoever.

Aurora opened her eyes in disbelief to see a teenage girl standing before her, with piercing blue eyes and long blonde hair.

Aurora opened her mouth to scream, but the girl, whose face was incredibly familiar and clothes were very old-fashioned, shushed.

“Trust me. I have to show you something.” She was very pale, almost translucent. She kneeled in front of Aurora, who was trying to back away against the wall, and took her hands. They were freezing. “Close your eyes.” The girl closed hers. Aurora, panting and cursing under her breath, did the same.

***

They were in a church, sitting in the rows, next to a stiff family of four. Aurora looked all around in disbelief, and figured that due to the preacher’s accent, they were in the south.

“Where are we?” She whispered very quietly, nervous to disturb the congregation.

“They can’t hear you, you don’t have to whisper,” the girl’s voice was light and feminine. “We’re at a service your family attended. That’s your mother,” the girl pointed to a little girl next to Aurora, who couldn’t have been older than seven. Aurora’s eyes grew wide at the little platinum being next to her. Her eyelashes were long, and she was mesmerized by the service, but she looked so afraid. She was wearing a pastel yellow overall dress; her curled blonde hair curled in a flip.

“And that’s me,” the mysterious teenager continued, pointing to the adult woman next to her mother, just as mesmerized by the congregation. Her lilac blouse complimented the gray pencil skirt. She had blonde hair, too, which was pinned back like a silver-screen movie star.

It was her grandmother. Next to her was her grandfather, and next to him was her uncle. But they were all so much younger.

Aurora’s head whipped back to the teenage girl in confusion. “Are you a…” she trailed off, her eyes narrowed as she connected the dots.

“A ghost. I suppose, yes, I am. Although I don’t like the word. It has foul connotations,” her teenage-ghost-grandmother shook her head in disagreement.

“But why are you… young?” Aurora didn’t want to sound rude. She just shrugged. “Why are we here?”

“Your rage,” her teenage-ghost-grandmother said so simply. “Your hatred and your fear. They all brought us here. You’ll see.”

The service ended, the preacher exited through a door, and all of the members of the congregation stood up to exit the building. Young-Evelyn asked her mother if she could use the restroom; she said yes, shooing her daughter away, as she leapt up from the bench and skipped down the hall. Aurora was confused when her teenage-ghost-grandmother placed a cold hand on her arm, pulling her after her young mother. The two of them flowed right through the bunched up groups of people like a trickling stream through shiny rocks; somehow finding their way through all of the cracks, no matter how tight.

They reached the hall, behind where the service was delivered, where the preacher was skimming through his notebook, and saw young Evelyn enter a women’s bathroom. The sound of the door opening and closing summoned the preacher, a young, clean-cut man, to look up from his notes. He peered to the left, and to the right, and Aurora’s eyes nearly began to water as this man snapped his notebook shut and entered the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Right behind Evelyn.

“Take me out of here,” Aurora, hands on her mouth, turned to her teenage-ghost-grandmother, who solemnly looked at that door.

“We didn’t believe her,” she croaked. Aurora didn’t know ghosts could cry. “We didn’t believe her, and it followed her all the way down to you.” The ghost, who smelled fresh like the ocean, turned to her warm, beating granddaughter. “I’m showing you this because you need to let go,” As Young Evelyn hurried out of the bathroom, one of her overall-buttons undone, the scene around Aurora and her teenage-ghost-grandmother began to melt, and so did all of the people. They were back in the shed, and Aurora was still seated. Aurora glanced all around, confused, touching the floor and the walls to be sure they were all real. Processing what the ghost said, she peered up at her.

“What do you mean, ‘let go?’” Aurora gripped the lighter, still in her pocket, tightly.

“Perspectives you don’t understand. They will allow fear to devour you and dictate your relationships,” she continued. “All of this will go away if you confront your fears and control your rage,” the ghost looked so serious in that moment, Aurora thought.

She suddenly vanished, leaving Aurora in the dark shed alone. The door to the shed that Aurora had been leaning against suddenly cracked open, but Aurora caught herself, placing her hands on the ground for support. She was surprised to see that night had fallen. How long was she “away?” She pushed herself up off of the ground, and the door swung open.

It was her grandfather. He exhaled in relief, as Aurora tensed.

“Your Momma and I’ve been searchin’ all over for ya,” he spoke calmly, as if to tell Aurora he wasn’t angry with her. “I’m glad you’re okay. C’mon, dear. Let’s get inside.” He placed an arm around his granddaughter.

Let go.

Aurora and her grandfather ascended the hill and Aurora’s mother, holding a flashlight, stood on the back porch, very relieved to see her daughter, as the three went inside and straight to bed. As Aurora laid in the dark of her pink room that wasn’t really her room, on the bed that wasn’t really her bed, she vowed to try to make the most of this Tennessee-thing.

***

Aurora opened her eyes, slightly crusted over, one fall Saturday morning. She sat up, with a big stretch, and stared at the walls of her room. Still pink. But now plastered with posters of her favorite bands, and even some pictures of Cinderella from her childhood remained. She smiled to herself, and swung her legs out of bed, de-crusting her eyes. Her window, still open from last night, allowed the sounds of summer birds chirping and the smell of dry grass enter her bedroom. The last sounds and smells of summer were saying goodbye.

She put on her socks and made her way to the kitchen, where Aurora’s mother was rinsing dishes, humming a tune. Her hair was already styled to perfection and she had on stiff light jeans and a white sweater–out of her pajamas. Aurora, still in her own pajamas, quietly cleared her throat, prompting her mother to turn around.

“Good morning, Mom,” she spoke quietly, twirling her messy ponytail in her fingers, her back straight.

“Hi, Aurora,” She cleared her throat, “Uhm, Rory,” Aurora’s mother turned from the sink to face her daughter, and she had a defeated look on her face. “I need to apologize,” Aurora was taken aback, but she stopped touching her hair as her mother continued.

“I know this move has been hard on you, and it has for me, too,” she paused, looking at her daughter right in the eyes, “I haven’t been a great mom. And I’m sorry.” She folded her arms together, and tilted her blonde head slightly. Aurora nodded, and smiled, and she approached her mother for a hug.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you.” She squeezed her daughter’s hand and Aurora smiled. “Go say good morning to your grandfather; he’s outside.” She pointed out the back door, and Aurora heard Patti Page’s singing voice from a staticky radio from outside. Looking out the window, her grandfather sat in his chair on the back patio, gazing into the forest. Aurora’s footsteps were quiet, not wanting to disturb him.

“Sleep well, sweetheart?” He looked up at her, his brown eyes resembling her own again, and smiled. She nodded and sat down beside him.

“How was the paper this morning, Grandpa?” She asked, her hands folded in her lap, and leaning back in her chair.

“More bullshit about Reagan and whatnot,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I’m a red-blooded American like everybody else, but I’ve gotta be the only damn person in this country who ain’t trustin’ him.” Aurora just nodded. She didn’t know much about politics, but she knew she was interested.

“But I don’t want to talk about him. You still miss San Francisco, dear?” He turned to her, breaking his endless looking into the woods. Aurora, looking down, nodded again.

“I miss Dad,” she began, sadly, but her solemn expression softened. “Tennessee isn’t as bad as I thought, though.” She smiled a small smile, scratching her messy red-haired head.

“Glad you think so.” He paused for a moment, looking away from his granddaughter. “Your grandma would’ve loved to see the young lady you’re becomin’.” Aurora smiled with the knowledge that her grandma had seen. She couldn’t see, but she knew there were tears in those matching eyes. “It’s just been so special seein’ you again.” Aurora reached out and touched his hand, and he turned to show her his tears. “And I’m happy you can make your own choices. Don’t just do somethin’ because your Momma told ya it was the right way to do it,” he chuckled to himself. Aurora just smiled, and rose from her chair and gave him a hug.

“Thank you.” She squeezed.

“And also,” he continued after Aurora pulled away, “your Grandmomma and I, we ain’t perfect. And neither is your Momma, or Daddy for that matter. But we’s certainly tryin’. And we love ya.” He wiped tears from his eyes, and Aurora nodded.

“I love you, too, Grandpa,” Aurora’s freckled face, the tips of her nose and cheeks already pink from the morning sun, smiled.

Suddenly, from inside, the wall phone began to ring.

“Aw, shoot,” her grandfather said, “Must be your Pop.” He winked. Aurora’s heart beat quickly as she rose to answer. She hadn’t spoken to her dad in a while.

“Hello?” Aurora asked, as she picked up the clunky telephone that was nearly bigger than her head.

“Hey, Rory!” Announced her father from the other line. Aurora could hear the smile on his face.

“Hi, Dad!” She exclaimed. She wished she could hug him at that moment.

“So, how are you liking your Mom’s hometown? Is it as scary as you made it sound in your letters?” he asked.

Aurora looked around the house. The peeling wallpaper, drippy sink, beautifully knitted wool blankets, and the undeniably comfortable furniture. She glanced out the window into the deep forest that didn’t frighten her anymore, and at her grandmother’s photograph smiling at her from the wall; at her mother, reading a book on a comfy chair and laughing at the words. She finally set her eyes on her grandfather, sitting outside, humming along to his favorite country music, his favorite cap on, and his eyes, shining in all of their beauty. And no longer something she was afraid of.

“I love it here,” the sixteen-year-old said, with the truth warmly embracing every word.