“What is it?” I asked.
“A church,” Eleanor answered. “I think.”
“It’s pretty.”
“It’s more than that. It’s the place, I can feel that there’s—I don’t know—there’s something about it.”
I had no clue of what Ell was talking about. Yeah, the idea of pulling over and making sure she was okay crossed my mind, but I didn’t. After what we'd experienced in Bob’s basement combined with the loss of her brother, you had to think she was close to losing her sanity entirely. I know I was. But, like I’ve said before, Ell’s stronger than most.
“We have to go there,” she said. Her eyes burned with a seriousness I hadn’t seen since before Woodhaven. “That’s the place I want to leave Mikey. The place I want him to rest.”
I asked no more questions, and I steered through the sea of white toward the spire. And as we gained on the church, I knew Ell was right.
There was something about it.
Tallmadge Falls reminded me of Woodhaven in a lot of ways—small, surrounded by empty farmland and forest, and deserted. In the heart of the city there was a town circle instead of a square. The circle was a large roundabout with eight exits branching off in every direction, but in the middle was a park. Tall trees were planted around the outside, a way of deterring drunk drivers from jumping the curb and plowing through the grass. Of course, snow covered most everything around here, another thing the two towns had in common, so I allowed my imagination to fill in the blanks of what was under the layers of white. Park benches, walkways leading to the few buildings in the circle, trash cans, and maybe some memorial plaques dedicated to the town’s bigwig donors. Fast food places, gas stations, and drug stores surrounded the outskirts of the roundabout, but they were pristine in comparison to the shabby businesses and the creepy motel we saw around the town square in Woodhaven.
Even if there was a creepy motel, I don’t think it would’ve brought down the circle’s centerpiece. That church. As we got closer to it, I realized how dated it was. In fact, some may have called it beyond dated. Ancient was a better descriptor. The politer term, I believe, is historical. Still, despite its age and various points of disrepair, the church was beautiful. Maybe even more beautiful surrounded by all that snow, where it shined bright like a star in the night sky.
I drove our sled up to the steps leading to the church’s door and killed the engine. I felt like I was looking at an old painting, the kind you see housed in protective cases meant to prevent the endless stream of camera flashes from wearing the portraits down to blank canvas.
Four pillars rose high in front of the building, and large chunks of paint were missing from them, showing the wood beneath. Above the pillars was a large stained glass window showing a distorted depiction of Christ on the cross. Black holes peppered the torso. It was as if someone had thrown rocks at it, but that nor the sheeted ice could dampen the dazzling brilliance of the art. At the top of a stone staircase all but buried by the snow, a tall door rose between the second and third pillar. I craned my head and took in the tower, the belfry, and the spire, the latter ending with a cross at its apex, which pierced the heavens above.
A blanket of warmth invaded the snowmobile’s cab. I don’t think I imagined it or that it was some sort of mental sensation. I honestly believe the air grew a few degrees warmer. Not much, but in those conditions, a few degrees went a long way.
The idea this place might’ve been protected wasn’t a crazy one. I think—as I’m sure the others did as well—that there was magic there, but it was the type of magic one wasn’t meant to keep. It was like finding a ladybug, and with it, good luck. But you couldn’t lock the poor insect away in a jar and keep it forever, milking it of its power. No, you had to let it go. You had to open the window or your front door, and help it back into the wild where it belonged. Such a thing didn’t belong to a single person, but to all who stumbled across the ladybug’s path. That’s how I felt about our stay at the church. It offered safety to those who stumbled upon it, and overstaying our welcome would only do more harm than good. Sure, those walls protected us, and maybe even gave off their own kind of luck, but those walls belonged to no one. They never had and they never would.
In our time there, less than a day if memory serves me correctly, nothing bothered us. When I say nothing, I mean nothing. The wraiths steered clear of the circle and perhaps the town in general; no beasts wailed or screamed save for the wind, and even that was tame compared to what we’d been used to. Nothing called our names; nothing taunted us; I thought no bad thoughts; and, for the hour or two of sleep I got while inside, my nightmares of a murderous Bob Ballard were nonexistent.
We lived almost in a state of wonderful bliss.
“Yeah,” Ell said, voice shaky but not from the cold. “Yeah, this is it.”
Stone and Mia pulled up next to us. They were both staring at the building with dreamy smiles on their faces. Between them, Chewy stood on his hind legs, his forepaws planted on the narrow dashboard, and looked out through the foggy windshield. Even the dog seemed happier, and I was glad for that after what he’d gone through.
“I’ll see if it’s open,”
