Page 23 of Calling Quarters

“What happened last night?”

When I think back on it, none of it seemed realistic. The spooky chanting, the loud bangs, the panicked crowd. Whatever ritual Tabitha, Calista, and Blaire did afterward. I was almost convinced I'd imagined it all. At least, until Blaire's cheery expression faltered, and her eyes fell to wringing hands.

“We're not really sure. What did you see before you went out?”

I tried to recall the last few moments prior to everything going black but could only remember the furious ocean waves being so close, I could practically feel them spraying me. I wasn't ready to share that part with anyone until I figured it out myself.

“I can't remember,” I admitted, only half lying.

“Well, you looked terrified.”

“Blaire! I still need your help!” Tabitha called out, annoyance lacing her tone. She must have been the one making all the noise.

Blaire rolled her eyes. “We made breakfast. You should come eat when you feel up to it,” she said, then turned and walked out of her room.

I chugged my water and peeled myself from the bed. The idea of facing Tabitha's ornery attitude didn't sound very appealing, but I felt odd sitting in Blaire's bed while they moved around the kitchen. Heavy, sluggish legs dragged me toward where all the noise was coming from, and my nose filled with the aroma of cinnamon and butter. Someone had made French toast. My stomach gurgled at the sight of them, begging to be fed.

“Sit. Eat,” Tabitha demanded. I didn't bother arguing.

She didn't bring up last night or try to ask me what happened the way Blaire had. She just plopped herself down in the chair across from me and read the morning paper while I shoveled food into my mouth and Blaire stood at the sink, quietly humming while she washed the dishes.

The headline of her newspaper was printed in thick, black ink.

Mabon Chaos Ensues, Injuring Many: Are We Still Safe?

So many questions bounced on my tongue, begging to be asked. It felt like every day I spent in Beacon Grove only created more mystery around my family, their departure from the town, and their deaths.

Tabitha knew more than she was willing to share with me. She had even gone as far as preventing someone else from spilling too much. The old woman from the festival was obviously out of her mind, but Tabitha felt threatened enough by her to physically assault me and prevent me from hearing what she had to say.

And how did she know something would happen to me during the incantation they practiced? Why hadn't she wanted me a part of it?

Nothing made sense anymore, but she was the one person always standing at the center of my confusion.

Blaire excused herself when someone rang the bell impatiently in the office. Tabitha still hadn't bothered looking up at me, so I spent the rest of my meal taking in every detail of their outdated kitchen. It felt so similar to the one I grew up in with drying herbs strung up across the cabinets and cinnamon sticks hanging in each window. It wasn't the first time since I drove into Beacon Grove that I was overtaken with a sense of being home again.

When my plate was empty and rinsed, I quietly exited the kitchen without a word. I passed Blaire on the way, listening to her apologize profusely to the furious tourists who were demanding a refund for their room. With a simple wave, I left her alone and headed to my room.

I wanted to take a hot shower and try to process the past twenty-four hours. Possibly attempt to recall whatever events transpired before I was knocked out. I was worn down from the constant mental stimulation of interacting with the exhausting people of Beacon Grove, and it felt as if I hadn’t been alone with my own thoughts in days. I needed to decompress and refocus on the reason I was here before I got too caught up in the town’s drama.

By the time I was stripping down for a shower, I was convinced that’s all this was. My passing out was simply mental exhaustion and the sooner I got out of Beacon Grove and back into the real world, the sooner things could return to normal.

It wasn’t long after my shower that the moaning and screaming through the walls began again. The sounds were so distant, I could have blocked them out with the TV or popping my headphones in if I’d wanted to. But for some reason, I felt like I needed to hear it. To listen to whatever it was these women were calling out in anguish, so I could figure out if I could help them.

I sprawled out on the bed and relaxed into my pillow, slowing my breathing so I could really focus on the muffled sounds. This time, it was only one woman. Maybe it always has been. But her guttural moans and roars came in waves, with long stretches of silence in between. It was in those pockets of silence that I found myself lost in deep thought, accessing a part of my brain that felt unfamiliar and foreign to me. It wasn’t long before I fell into a deep meditative state, and with it, I was brought back to the place I’d left when I passed out the night before.

The waves were calmer this time, gently kissing the shore instead of the harsh pummeling they’d given it hours before. Perhaps the tides were a psychological metaphor, and they represented my subconscious thoughts. I was calmer now than I had been last night. The waters clearly symbolized that shift. I kept my mind focused on the soft swaying, too afraid to turn and look at any of my other surroundings for fear of losing this once again.

It wasn’t until I heard a voice behind me a few moments later that I was willing to tear my gaze away from the vast ocean. Remy’s tall figure filled my vision, his black hair lazily draped over tired, dark eyes. He was talking to someone, and though I couldn’t sense the other person or hear their words, the conversation felt intense. I could see it in his rigid back and the defensive tautness of his muscles.

“I told you, I don’t need your help,” his deep voice insisted.

Small details of my surroundings slowly fizzled into view as I spent more time looking at him. I took three steps in his direction, through the open French doors that appeared between us, and watched his expression shift while the other person spoke. I noted how hard he was trying to keep his composure. Whoever he was speaking with, he didn’t want them to see how badly they were affecting him.

The conversation ended abruptly, before Remy had a chance to retort whatever it was the other person had said. He was visibly upset and while I never heard a door close or saw them walk away, I could tell when his nuisance left by the obvious change in his demeanor.

Even if this were a dream or some twisted figment of my imagination, seeing him in such a vulnerable state felt like an invasion of his privacy, so I turned my back to his frustrated form and took in the new details of the room we were standing in.

The walls and ceiling were both covered in a deep, dark blue paint that made them feel like an endless pit. The furniture was sparse. A simple hand carved, maple-brown dresser was pushed against one wall with a bed set and matching nightstand directly across from it. The bed was neatly made, and nothing sat on the nightstand but a simple digital alarm clock. There wasn't a speck of dust anywhere to be found and the shining floors hardly looked walked on.