The figure transformed again. Now it was Jonas who stood before me. He wore a tank top and shorts, and his tattoos turned red and crispy by the heat of the flame.
“You let me die too, bro. What the hell happened to the Three Musketeers? I know we’ve been sayin’ that shit since we were, like, twelve or something and it’s kinda lame and all, but there was supposed to be an unbreakable bond between us. We were supposed to have each other’s backs! You let me get shot, and then you just left my body to rot in some strange house. Not cool, dude. Not cool at all...”
The transformations continued, now from Jonas to Mikey.
I stood, frozen.
“You’re just gonna get Ell killed like you got all of us killed, Grady,” this version of Mikey said. “And Mia and her baby, and Stone, and Ramsey, and Chewy. And if you go to the City, then you’ll get them all killed too. You’re worthless!”
He wore the light blue sweater he had been murdered in. His entire front, from collar to hem, was soaked with blood. My eyes traveled down to his feet. He was somehow balanced on his twisted ankles. Each foot was askew, the right nearly all the way around and the left facing inward. The knobs of bone poking through were shiny and slightly yellow.
“If you love them like you say you do, then do them a favor and come with me.” The ghostly version of Mikey extended a red-stained hand. “Come on, I’ll save you the trouble. I can give you an all-expenses paid trip to peace. Trust me, it’s not so bad here. It’s like we’re in Schrödinger's box. You remember talking about that?” He smiled. “Inside of this box, we’re completely safe from the problems and worries of the outside world. It’ll stay that way too, because no one can take this lid off. I promise, Grady.”
It seemed he held out his hand for a long time, and in that time, I considered taking him up on his offer. I mean, he was right, wasn’t he? Things didn’t end well for those I came in contact with. Death surrounded me like flies around a corpse. Maybe if I let the monster take me, the others would have a chance. The curse would break, and my friends and loved ones could finally flourish.
The lighter in my hand wavered. My thumb pressing on its button twitched.
No.
I may have grown up without a mother, but my father taught me to always keep fighting. I remember him telling me this after a schoolyard scuffle got me suspended in the seventh grade. I came home so worried he would be mad, I was almost in tears. But my ol’ dad grabbed a bag of frozen broccoli from the freezer and held it against my face, grinning from ear to ear. He asked me why I got into a fight. I told him because some eighth grader thought it would be funny to hit me below the belt. “Sack-tapping,” they called it. I recounted how after the first punch, I got up and clocked him good on the nose. Broke it, apparently. Two of the kid’s friends jumped in. They kicked and hit me until I couldn’t see straight. A teacher eventually intervened, but I was honest with my dad, and I told him how I wasn’t planning on getting back up. Three on one wasn’t a fair fight. Even if it was, they had me in the weight and height department by a good amount.
My dad said, “Sure, you’ll get knocked down, but you don’t stay down. One on one, three on one, a hundred on one, I don’t care. You’re a Miller boy. You get back up, and you try your best to stay up. Yeah, you’ll take more punches, but you might land a few of your own in the process. It ain’t about winning. It’s about staying fearless. Then, only then, will the bullies leave you alone.”
I replayed those words in my head. They sounded crystal clear, as if my father was right beside me.
The monster wearing Mikey’s face smirked, and its eyes glazed over, full of pleasure and arrogance. It thought it had won.
It was wrong.
With newfound strength, I pressed down on the bug spray, and it gushed out in a fine mist.
Then, as soon as it connected with flame, a sheet of fire exploded toward the wraith. I’d taken a hell of a beating, been knocked down more times than I could count, but I was back up now.
And here came my punches.
The thing let out a screech, the terrible noise so loud it shuddered the steel walls and echoed down the tunnel. Unable to coax me into its arms, it tried changing before the flame lit on its skin. What it tried changing into, I’m not sure. I remember the tentacles poking through the flesh of its face. Little pinkish-gray worms. They burrowed out of its cheeks and dangled from its eyes. At the end of each one were tiny mouths full of serrated teeth. I believe they would’ve gotten bigger had I froze again and not pressed on.
Unfortunately for the monster, I did press on. I ran it down with the cloud of fire in front of me. Soon the flames engulfed it entirely.
Through the light, I saw Mikey’s head split open and two stick-thin claws emerge. They gripped either side of the gash and pushed until the head was completely cleaved in half. The creaking noise of separating bone reminded me of stepping on old floorboards.
I almost let off the button and let the flame go out, I was so shocked at what was happening. Was this the wraith’s true form? Was it another disguise? Whatever the case, my mind could barely handle it. Telling it in this story now, I’m
