Chapter 4

4

T wo months had passed since my brother had died and I'd met the mysterious Madame Persephone, changing my life forever. My days were still garbage, but my nights were what I lived for. It had taken more time than I wanted to think about, but I managed to get the fountain sparkling (and far less stinky). I'd started on the floor after that, and every bit of scrubbing revealed more and more of the intricate, colorful tilework that made up the mosaic. I figured I'd get started on the windows once I eventually finished that, but that would be a long time coming. Well, I'd work on the interior side of the windows, at any rate. I couldn't do anything about the exterior since I couldn't open the door and go outside for reasons that still hadn't been revealed to me. I'd actually asked my journal pen pal why I couldn't, and they'd simply told me it wasn't time yet, whatever that meant.

Despite the frustrating non-answers, the other party involved in my journal conversations had become a friend of sorts, and I was grateful for their presence if that's what you could call the company of someone I'd never met. They always wrote things that made me think or take note of things in the world that I hadn't before.

So it was a bit unnerving when, one evening, I opened the journal to find words I had never even considered before.

If your parents were doing something completely abhorrent and evil, would you want to know about it, or would you prefer to remain ignorant?

I shut the book, sitting in shock for several minutes before getting up and entering the conservatory. As I scrubbed at the grimy floor, I contemplated the words I'd read. I already knew my parents were not nice people. Nice people don't beat their child into unconsciousness. That said, would I want to know if they were doing anything worse? I mean, I could kind of see them as serial killers in their spare time, but would I want to know I was the product of a marriage of two psychopaths?

I stopped scrubbing and grimaced. No, come to think of it, I already knew I was the product of a marriage of two psychopaths. That ship had sailed months ago. Maybe I'd be better off learning in order to protect myself from whatever they were secretly doing. Or I'd at least know not to get too curious about any suspicious freshly dug spots in the backyard.

I sighed and dropped my scrub brush, resting my head on my knees. It didn't matter what they were doing—I'd feel obligated to do what I could to stop them, and I'd feel horrible if I voluntarily remained ignorant so I wouldn't have to do anything. I wiped my hands off on my pants as I stood, then strode back into the living room and picked up the book.

It would be better for me to know. I wouldn't like it, but it's probably safer if I don't remain ignorant.

I returned to the conservatory and scrubbed the floor, but my heart wasn't in it. I was stuck on the question I'd seen and what my parents might have done or been doing. I wouldn't have been asked unless they were doing something. I was sure of that.

In a way, waking up that morning was worse than usual. I had to be face-to-face with people who'd clearly done something horrific to at least one person other than me. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice. Or at least if they'd noticed, then they just didn't care, and that was what mattered. I wanted them to leave me alone, even more so than usual.

That night, I had trouble falling asleep for the first time in a long time. When I finally found myself in the old house, I almost let myself ignore the book and just go to the conservatory. Unfortunately, putting it off wouldn't make things any better, so I finally opened the book and, with trembling hands, opened the pages.

If you want to know the truth about your parents, wake up right now and go to their study.

Suddenly, I was staring at the ceiling of my darkened bedroom. Had I woken myself up? Or had the writing triggered it? It didn't matter because the results would have been the same regardless. I looked over at the beat-up, ancient alarm clock next to my bed to see it was just after two in the morning. I sat up in bed and stared into the darkness. Even if I dared to enter the study, how would I get in? It was off-limits to anyone but my parents, locked tight, and I'd probably get worse than a beating if I were caught.

Despite that, I was out of bed and on my feet before realizing what I was doing. I was about to cross the room to listen at my door when I saw lights outside my bedroom window. I looked out to see our car leaving with two people inside. I couldn't see clearly, but it was probably my parents. Where on earth were they going at this hour?

The good news was that their departure made my trip to their study a little less dangerous. I grabbed the small flashlight I kept by my bed, opened my bedroom door, and listened. I could hear faint snoring from at least one of my siblings and no hint that anyone was awake. I sneaked into the hallway, avoiding the spots on the floor that I knew squeaked. I went downstairs and across the house, listening the whole way to make sure no one was about to come after me, and eventually found myself outside my parents' study.

I had never been more grateful to have known my parents thought security systems were a waste of money. I'd heard them talking about it years prior, so at least I was relatively sure they weren't recording anything inside the house.

Especially since the door was ajar, which was something that never happened. It was always shut tight and locked, though I'd never tried the door before. We'd all been made aware at a very young age that so much as getting too close to the study warranted punishment. I made sure to take note of exactly what position the door was in before I slunk inside.

The room was opulent. Clearly, this was one of the spaces where my parents flaunted their riches. It looked like what I imagined a stereotypical wealthy businessman would have. While the lights were off, the light coming in through the sheer drapes was enough to see that the walls were all dark wood and built-in cabinets. The carpeting on the floor was far softer and more plush than anything in any other part of the house. There were upholstered chairs, a fireplace, and a desk that looked like it was made of the same wood as the walls.

While the room was a disgusting display of wealth from people who barely bothered to feed some of their kids, it wasn't necessarily evil, so I assumed there was something else I should be looking for. I put my hand over my flashlight and turned it on, letting just enough light out between my fingers that I was sure it wouldn't be noticeable from outside.

I started at the desk because that was the place that made the most sense. At first, it appeared to be nothing but papers, but as I was just about to give up and look elsewhere, I noticed a corner of what looked like a photograph peeking out from one of the pages. I noted the exact position of the page, just like I'd done with the door, and turned off my flashlight long enough to carefully move the page.

When I turned the light back on and pointed it at what turned out to be an entire pile of photographs, I immediately regretted it. The pictures were of young children from our church, mostly between six and ten years of age. They were in various stages of undress, and adults were in the pictures with them doing unspeakable things. My parents. The local police chief. The local sheriff. Members of their church. The youth pastor. All touching those kids in ways they should never have been touched.

I was so horrified I didn't even have it in me to be nauseated by what I saw. Instead, I considered whether I could take the photos as evidence, but I assumed they'd immediately be missed. And who would I take them to? From what I saw in the photos, local law enforcement would protect my parents, not help me put them away forever in a dark cell where they could rot until they went to Hell to burn for eternity.

I turned off the light, put the page back, and turned the light back on long enough to make sure it was exactly as it had been before I'd moved it. Then I turned off the light again to slink out of the room, putting the door back exactly where it had been when I found it.

I was grateful to make it back to my room without any of my siblings running into me because I was sure my face would have screamed my guilt. I put my flashlight away and climbed back into bed. I stayed like that for a long time, still in shock, before it finally started to wear off and the reality of the situation hit me. Then I cried myself back to sleep.

I opened the book to find new words below the ones telling me to wake up. There were just two, but they were heartfelt.

I'm sorry.

I sighed deeply and rubbed at my face before taking the book to the couch and curling up in a ball. I stayed like that for a long time, but eventually, I moved, grabbing hold of the book and pulling it toward me.

It's not your fault. I'm better off knowing. I have to figure out how to get them locked away where they belong. Given what I saw, the local police will probably be useless. Any suggestions?

Also, if you could send me a fluffy animal to hug, it would be greatly appreciated.

I stayed there until the dream ended. I couldn't find the will to move.

The answer I received the next night was a plush dog waiting for me on the mantle and the following words:

In a few days, you'll meet someone who will help you. Be kind to yourself until then. None of this is your fault.

That was less than helpful. Would I meet these strangers here? In real life? Who were they? Honestly, I was still too caught up in my internal conflict over what I'd learned to dwell on it much, so I simply sighed at the lack of information, wrote a quick thank you in the journal, and hugged the plush dog.

Yes, it helped, in case you were wondering. I may have been mostly kidding when I requested a fluffy animal, but I'd take comfort where I could find it.

After I sat there with my face buried in the plush dog's fur for a while, I got up, set the toy against the corner of the couch where it could rest comfortably, and headed for the conservatory to continue the ongoing scrubbing efforts.

Over the next three days, I noticed that the weather in my dream world seemed to follow my mood. The window exteriors were too filthy to see out of clearly, but there were places where I could vaguely see the sky. It had grown cloudier each night, and that surprised me. I had assumed it would always be sunny here. I tried to will the weather to improve, but nothing happened, so I assumed that, like so much else in this odd little section of dreamland, it was something I couldn't change.

I made the best of the bad weather, even though it made me not want to clean the conservatory. It was hard to be excited about scrubbing in there when all around me were threatening skies that I could just barely see through years of filth. Maybe some rain would wash away some of the caked-on layers.

Or not. I was starting to get the impression that there were things outside someone didn't want me to see. I had no idea whether that was a good thing, but considering how things had turned out the last time I'd decided it was best if I didn't remain ignorant, so I wouldn't test it. I'd stay inside, where there were definitely—well, most likely, anyway—no monsters hiding in dark spaces to devour my soul or something.

On the fourth day of the worsening weather, I arrived at the house to hear rain beating down. I definitely didn't want to go into the conservatory with that kind of weather going on. For all I knew, the place had cracks in the glass ceiling. Instead, I lit a fire in the fireplace and sat upon a thick cushion on the floor before it, basking in the warmth. Sure, the warmth probably didn't exist, as this was a dream, but I'd given up trying to understand what should and should not be possible in my sleep long ago. I just went with it. I had enough to deal with, and the peaceful solitude my dreams afforded me was too beautiful to ruin with logic.

So imagine my surprise when my solitude was interrupted by a voice behind me whispering my birth name. No one called me Ezekiel outside my horrible family, and I jumped to my feet and spun around, prepared to defend myself.

What I saw gave me chills. One of the figures standing there had pale blue skin, black hair, black talons, wings, a tail, and small black horns. The other had similar features, but his skin was an intensely dark red, and his horns reminded me of a full-grown ram. Why were there demons in my dream? I certainly hadn't willed them there, and they had a feeling of actually existing. I opened my mouth to scream—whether in fear or to wake myself up, I wasn't sure—but the blue demon held up both hands in a show of peace.

"Wait," he said, and I was surprised by the plea in his tone. "We won't get any closer, I promise."

I closed my mouth and stared at him, unsure what to say. He sighed and turned to his companion. "Can you?" he asked, waving a hand to indicate his body.

"You still can't do it?" the other asked with a derisive snort that, oddly enough, held more than a tinge of fondness.

The blue demon made a face. "Maybe I should get a more skilled teacher, then."

Not a second later, the blue demon was replaced with a human, and the red demon gave him the bird. "Better?"

The now-human demon looked at his hands and nodded. "Thanks, Gramps."

He turned his attention back to me, and I could feel my eyes go wide. Looking at him was almost like looking in a mirror—same slightly shaggy brown hair, same deep brown eyes, even the same nose—though possibly more like looking at myself in a few years. He seemed older and had the face of someone who looked like he'd forgotten to shave, even if he'd just done it. "You're me," I said nonsensically. "Wow, okay, this is a new one." I thought about that for a second, then shook my head. "No, except I wouldn't call myself 'Ezekiel.' Who are you?"

I knew, though. I knew who he was. I had a photograph of him on the mantel next to the journal. But how? He was dead .

"You're lucid, then," the red demon said, looking surprised and...pleased? Why did that make him happy?

I nodded. I didn't know how wise I was to give them information about myself, but they hadn't hurt me, and if everything I'd been taught about God had been a lie to further my parents' sick life goals, why wouldn't the same be true of Hell's minions? "My dreams are always lucid."

"Definitely one of us," the red demon murmured to not-me.

This made my hackles rise. Yeah, my faith was being tested, but I didn't appreciate being called demon spawn. "I'm not a demon ," I yelled at them and started to will myself awake.

"No, wait! Please!" not-me practically begged, making me pause in my tracks. "Please," he repeated, his voice softening, and I was struck by how he sounded a little sad. "I just want to talk. That's all."

I stared at him. He didn't seem to want to hurt me, and I definitely wanted to know why he looked like my deceased brother, so I sat back down. "Don't ever call me that again," I muttered, meaning both my full name and the demon thing. "It's Zeke, not Ezekiel."

Not-me nodded. "Zeke, then. I'm Gabe."

I could feel the blood leaving my face, and my eyes went wide. Was this a trick? I desperately hoped it wasn't, but my Gabe—could I call him 'mine' if he didn't even know I existed?—was dead. Then the memory of what Madame Persephone had said about listening to the dead when they spoke suddenly echoed in my head. "I had a—" I stopped. There was a limit to how much personal information I would give these two, and I wasn't sure I dared hope that I'd understood what the fortune teller had meant.

"A brother," he said, and I felt my heart thump rapidly, "who was a decade older than you. Gabe Rossi. Took a dive from a balcony that everyone seems to think was suicide because there was only one corpse."

"My mother said he committed suicide because he knew he was a sinner," I admitted. Well, my father had said the most about it, but it was a mother we shared, so she was the one I brought up.

Gabe snorted, his eyes rolling. "My ex-boyfriend dragged me off the balcony. I'd just wanted to finish my doctorate, man. I didn't want to die."

I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously. "Okay, so let's say you are the brother I've never met," I said. "Why would you be here in my dream?"

"Well, probably because our maternal grandmother, Virginia Mae Rossi, informed me that our mother is still a weasel-faced twatwaffle."