CLARA

Clara Carver never much liked the Black Place. Even at age nine, a big girl now, she’d never grown used to its rancid smell and the things that would brush across her skin like fallen eyelashes in the dark. She would leap to her feet and smack at her neck or her leg, and sometimes her hand would come away wet with an insect’s insides. Sometimes, and more often than not, she would leave the Black Place covered in welts from the ants and blister beetles that lived there, anxious for Mother’s calamine lotion to calm her sores.

Father told her the length of time she spent in the Black Place was up to her. If she were to mind her manners and do what he said, she could leave as quickly as a few short hours. If she were to cry and bang and cause a ruckus, time would pass much slower. Father said the things he did to her — the things that made her insides churn and left her whimpering with her arms wrapped around her knees — were a sign of his love for her.

“Clara, never forget how much I love you.”

It seemed that his love changed with his moods. When the corn came in thick and sweet, and money was flush, Father would take Clara for ice cream at the malt shop in Meeker, along with Mother. He would laugh and tell stories of the harvest, and how hard the men worked to bring it in. Mother would lace her fingers together and smile at him, and to anyone who passed, they seemed a normal enough family.

There were other times, though, when Father came home smelling of liquor and dragged Clara from whatever she was doing, out through the backyard and into the fields toward the Black Place. Sometimes, Father would force Mother to join him. She never resisted, but she didn’t seem to enjoy it much, and Clara guessed she did what he wanted because she preferred those things to a belt or his fists in her stomach.

Clara only resisted once at age six. She’d been playing in her room with her favorite doll, Mabel, who had a head full of lemon yarn hair, when Father told her to come. She said no. It was late, and she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Mabel all alone for the night. When Father grabbed her, Clara clawed and scratched and kicked and bit. As a result, Father left her in the Black Place for two days. When Clara returned to her room, it was to Mabel lying torn in half with her cotton insides strewn over the pink comforter. Clara cried for a week, and, after that, she decided she would cry no more.

She learned to endure the Black Place. She forced herself to find comfort in the small places Father couldn’t touch. She imagined a park with bright green grass and other children who would chase her up and down slides and push her on blue bucket swings. She pictured places other than the dust-caked farm with its rusted buildings and abandoned tractor equipment, places she’d seen in magazines and read about in books. Places like France with its gleaming metal cities and sun-speckled beaches, the sand as white as snow. She told herself, someday, she would escape the farm and go there.

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But not today. Today was worse than most. Her stomach hurt, and sharp cramps tore through her abdomen like shards of glass. She craved light and air. She needed to escape the sweltering dark and reeking stench of the Black Place. It was as if something were swelling within her, a creature inside she could no longer control. It burst up her throat, and she climbed the steps to the hatch door and clawed and scraped and screamed for someone — for anyone — to free her. She smashed her fists against the iron hatch until her knuckles bled. Clara didn’t care if her shouts brought the wrath of Father. She only wanted out.

But no one came, and she was about to return to her cot when she heard something click. She cupped a hand against a seam of light as the hatch squealed open, half-expecting to see the familiar outline of Mother’s cruel scowl or Father’s hard, brown eyes. Instead, she saw a girl not much older than herself with soft, white skin and a waterfall of raven-black hair. She wore a warm smile and a dress the color of the summer sky.

“Hello,” the girl said. “I heard you knocking. Would you like to come out?”

Clara nodded and knew she had finally found a friend.

Chapter Two

KAYLA

DAY ONE

I climb a jutting slab of rock and hold Dad’s phone skyward, tap it and hope for a signal or a text, anything to prove the outside world still exists. After three days of backpacking through nowhere, Colorado, I’m not sure it does.

“The Girls in the Cabin”

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I’m so pissed at Dad for dragging us out here. Camping somewhere new every night sucks, Dad snoring away in the tent like a broken tractor engine on one side and Emma kicking me on the other. If I had my phone, maybe I could distract myself. But no, Dad made me leave it in the car, even when I begged and begged. “Sorry, kiddo, but we need to spend some time together as a family.” What a load of crap. We stopped being a family the minute Mom died. Now we’re just three strangers who live together.

Besides, camping was Mom’s thing. Not his. He’s only doing it because he thinks he has to — because Mom always talked about backpacking in Colorado someday. He’s driving me crazy, asking me all these questions about boys and school and volleyball like he cares, which he doesn’t. Not really. All he’s ever cared about is his work because it gets him away from me and Emma and all of our drama. Or it used to, anyway. Now, with Mom gone, he’s stuck with us.

But whatever; it’s not like I can do anything about it. And, I have to admit, Colorado is pretty. There are lakes everywhere, stamped in perfect blue circles in between all the fir and pine. And the aspen trees, wow, are the leaves amazing — all these oranges and reds sparkling for as far as you can see. When we hike above the tree line, I can almost lose myself in the scenery. I say “almost” because the moment I do, I can practically feel Mom standing next to me, whispering in my ear.

Isn’t it so beautiful, Kit Kat?

Everything has been so shitty since she died. I can’t remember the last time I felt happy. About anything, really. It would help if I could talk to someone, but Dad is oblivious, and Mimi is never around anymore. Even if she were, she doesn’t get me the way Mom did. I can’t tell her about the stuff with Ethan and what a dick he was to ditch me right after we hooked up. It was my first time, and it couldn’t have been worse. He won’t even look at me now. Mom always told me to wait, that my first time should be special, but that if I did go through with it, I should tell her. And I would have. I totally would have. She wanted to be there to support me. Now there’s no one to do that except Dad.

Dad. Ugh, he thinks everything is just fine because I hang out with Bree and Abby from time to time and get decent grades. He has no idea how much I hate my pasty white legs and skeleton arms, or that my chest belongs to someone in middle school, not that anyone notices. I’m pretty much invisible at Brookline High School. Or I was before Mom died, anyway. Now everyone looks at me like I’m damaged goods:

She’s the one whose mom died, right?

God, she looks so sad all the time . . .

Oh, poor thing, that must be so hard on her. Cancer, I hear.

At first, I thought Mom would beat it. She’d sit there and tell me so — “I’m going to beat this, Kayla. I promise.” — and I was dumb enough to believe her because she seemed so strong. What a joke. She never stood a chance.

I settle onto the rock and stare at Dad’s phone, the dumb thing, then click on the photo icon. A picture appears, one of Bernie mid-bark, chasing Emma around the backyard with her sundress flared behind her like a cape. It’s easy to tell the picture is B.C. (Before Cancer) because she’s got this big smile splashed on her face. A real one, with the corners of her eyes crinkled. In the A.C. pictures, Emma’s smiles are gone, or if they’re there, they’re totally fake.

My finger hovers over the screen, and I tell myself not to do it, not to swipe because I know what comes next. I do it anyway. It’s a selfie of me and Mom at Canobie Lake, Mom in her swimsuit right after her diagnosis, looking happy, normal even, with her face still full and round. (I can beat this!) I swipe again, fall now, the leaves changing, Public Park alive with color. Mom’s hair is gone in this one, her head wrapped in a cherry silk scarf. I hated it when she lost her hair. It felt so mean. Like, how could God take something so beautiful after all he’d put her through, the very thing she loved the most?

I keep scrolling, and my throat swells when I reach the hospital pictures. The first is of Emma nestled next to Mom on the bed, Mom giving the camera a cheery, fake thumbs-up. (Maybe I’ll beat this?) Then one of me plopped in a chair beside her, crying. She has her hand to my chin, both of us staring at each other and being honest for once: there is no beating this, not this time. I remember looking at her and thinking, Don’t you do it. Don’t you dare leave me. I can’t handle it. But I knew she would, and there was nothing — absolutely nothing — I could do about it.

“That’s one of my favorites.”

I nearly drop the phone. Dad stands behind me with his arms crossed and his face flushed red from the climb. For a second, I think he’s about to blow up on me for leaving Emma by herself back at camp, but instead, he settles onto the rock and pats my leg.

“She’s so beautiful in that picture, don’t you think?”

I glance at it, annoyed. Mom wasn’t the only one he thought was beautiful.

“You look just like her, you know.”

“That’s what you always say.” And he does. All the time. It drives me nuts. It’s why I avoid mirrors. Every time I pass one, I see Mom staring back. Her auburn hair. Her lake-green eyes. The lips that are, in my opinion, a little too thin, set above a neck that’s definitely a little too long.

“You know I said no phones on this trip, Kit Kat.”

“Yeah, and I left mine in the car.” Kit Kat. Mom’s nickname for me since I was five. I used to love it. Now I can’t stand it, especially when he says it.

“Hand it over,” he says.

I toss it into his lap. “Fine. It’s not like it works up here, anyway.”

“Look, just hang in there one more day. You can call all your friends tomorrow when we’re back in the car, okay?”

“Whatever,” I mumble.

He falls silent, and we sit there for an awkward moment, watching the clouds blow off the mountains. I know what he’s thinking, because I’m thinking it, too: I wish we could go back. Back to when cancer wasn’t a thing and Mom was still alive. We all wish it. Especially Emma. She thinks if she just doesn’t talk, doesn’t say anything, it will somehow change things and bring Mom back. But it won’t. Nothing will. She’s gone, and no matter how quiet Emma is, or how badly Dad wants to fix everything, or how angry I get, things will never be the same.

He squeezes my knee. “We’d better get back before Emma jumps in the lake.”

She won’t. She doesn’t do anything these days but sit around, looking sad while she colors.

“Besides,” he says, pointing at the clouds, “rain’s on the way. We need to set up the tent.”

I move to stand, but he keeps his hand on my knee a moment longer, his eyes serious like he’s about to have one of his “Dad” talks.

“What?” I ask, hoping to get it over with. I can’t handle his lies, how he says he cares and how sorry he is for everything. Blah, blah, blah.

I groan, and he shuts his mouth, suddenly looking angry. My eyes heat up again, but I won’t cry. Not here. Not anywhere. Especially in front of him. After the last year, I’m all cried out.

With a sigh, I stand and head for the trail before he can stop me.

Caleb Stephens is an award-winning author writing from Denver, Colorado. His novels include “The Girls in the Cabin,” a psychological thriller, and “Feeders,” a speculative horror thriller. His dark fiction collection “If Only a Heart and Other Tales of Terror” includes the short story “The Wallpaper Man,” which was adapted to film by Falconer Film & Media in 2022. Join his mailing list and learn more at www.calebstephensauthor.com. Follow him on Instagram @calebstephensauthor.