MC couldn't understand why he had to wear a suit in the freezing cold. He looked at the garment bag containing the suit he'd packed, memories flooding back of the last time he'd worn it. It was during an awards ceremony where he'd taken first place in some academic competition-the details were fuzzy, but the pride in his mother's eyes remained crystal clear. She had bought it for him specially for the occasion, and he had never touched it since then, hanging in his closet. That was about two years ago, a lifetime in the eyes of a teenager.
Sighing, MC slipped on the suit, surprised to find that it still fit as perfect as ever. He hadn't grown an inch since then, something for which he felt both relieved and dismayed simultaneously. The fabric felt stiff and unfamiliar against his skin, a tangible reminder of how much had changed since he'd last worn it. Deciding the suit alone was useless against the biting cold, he buttoned up the long black trench coat his mother had thoughtfully brought along.
He finally went down in his room, opened the door to head out. Time to bid farewell to Grandpa William, he thought-the thought sent another pang through the chest as he stepped out and headed to the living room; they all sat with an air so solemn. Then again, MC moved his gaze and spotted Ron there. He, at last had come, yet still seemed dazed, scrapping his mammoth-sized beard, appearing even more awesome than ever before.
"Is everybody ready?" Eva asked, the firm tone of her voice accompanied by the smooth donning of a pair of sleek black gloves. A chorus of muted "yes"es answered her. "Okay, let's go then."
As they filed out, MC couldn't help but notice the palpable tension that existed between Maximus and Jake. His younger brother shot Jake a dirty look as he passed, which Jake returned with one that could melt steel. The air was thick between them, adding another layer to an already horrible day.
The two families began piling into their respective cars. MC crawled into the back seat, his stomach churning in a very unpleasant manner. He had almost convinced himself that his stomach merely stirred from the pre-dinner helping of ice cream, but part of his consciousness well understood otherwise. That cloudy memory of dinner last night-it had been infeasibly quiet-threatened to choke him each day. Of course, he welcomed not having it drag on and now knew it ended soon. More than ever now he stood out with grandpa Williamr-a final good-bye.
He would go back to White Rock after the funeral, try to make amends, try to move forward. But he knew deep down that his relationship with the Whitelock family was irreparably harmed, and that was a hard pill to swallow.
Maximus said nothing beside him for a while, then leaned in close. "Who is William?" he whispered.
MC blinked, confused by the inquiry. "He's Eva's father and Jacob, Jake, and Emma's grandfather," he told him. "I thought that was an obvious thing at least."
"Not that," grumbled Maximus as he smacked MC's arm, "I meant, what was the man like? I don't know anything, and I'm going to attend his funeral service."
MC looked out the window as the snow-covered landscape rolled by. "He was a great person," he said quietly. "Everybody in this town loved him so much."
"Did you love him?" asked Maximus. An innocent question, yet it cut deep into MC's heart.
"Hell yeah," MC replied, his eyes never leaving the scenery passing by as Ron made his way carefully over the ice-covered roads to the church. "He was the kind of guy everyone wished they could be friends with."
As they finally reached the church and went inside, MC was astonished at how many people were there. It was as if the whole town had come to pay their respects. Not surprising, really, given the popularity of Grandpa William, but MC had not expected it. He felt naked, vulnerable to the curious and sometimes hostile eyes of his former neighbors.
MC, head down, found his way to the second row of pews, very conscious of all the eyes on him. He tried to tune it out and turned his attention to the unfamiliar priest at the head of the church. Surprising-he was young, probably late twenties. MC knew most people in town or had; this must be a post-departure addition.
As the young clergyman stepped forward into the pulpit, the congregation fell silent. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," he intoned, his voice carrying clearly through the full church.
A chorus of "Amen" rose from the assembled mourners.
"My brothers and sisters," the priest went on, his eyes travelling along the lines of countenances before him, "we are met together here to-day to celebrate the passing into a higher life of our dear brother William. It is natural that we who have known and loved him should regret his departure from among us; yet on this occasion it is our duty to think not of ourselves, but of him. Therefore we try to put aside our sense of personal loss, and to think only of his great and most glorious gain."
The priest, with a steady voice, reverberated off the solemn walls of the church. "Grandpa William was a shining light in our community, who brightened the darkest days with his laughter, and whose wisdom was shared as freely as a gift from God. He made each one of us feel noticed and special, even over things that might have seemed small to him.
MC shifted uncomfortably in his seat, thoughts swirling like the snow falling outside. It was weird to hear this man, a stranger, speak so affectionately of one with whom he'd grown up and yet felt he hardly knew. He could see faces that he knew-neighbors and friends-wiping their eyes, nodding in agreement-while the priest continued.
"As we are here today," the priest said, "let us always remember what Grandpa William inculcated in us through his actions: the love of community, standing by one another both in times of joy and in times of sorrow. He showed us that even the smallest act of kindness could leave a lasting impact."
MC felt the silence fall around him. Every word seemed to hang in the air, dripping with emotion. He remembered how Grandpa William had always protected him, how he'd always been so soothing, how he tried to reach out to every person who crossed his path. The memory flickered a flame inside him, piercing the chill that was freezing the air.
The priest didn't speak immediately; he paused for a moment, looking out to the crowd before him. "We may not understand why he had to leave us so soon. Life can seem incredibly unfair and often incomprehensible. But, my friends, today is not just about mourning his loss; it is a celebration of the incredible life he lived. It is a time for us to reflect on our own lives, and to honor him by striving to be a bit more like him: compassionate, loving, and generous with our time and attention."
A few people snuffled softly, and MC could hear the rustling of tissues being pulled from pockets as the priest's words pierced the heavy atmosphere. It was all a bit overwhelming, and he found himself clutching the edges of the pew to steady himself.
"As it is written in the Gospel of John, "Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me." These words remind us that as much as Grandpa William may no longer be with us in body, his spirit will continue to live on in the hearts of everyone he touched."
"Today, let us together reminisce about memories, stories, and laughter. Let us not allow this moment to dissolve into sorrow alone," he said gently. "We owe it to Grandpa William to carry his legacy forward, to keep spreading our laughter and kindness to others. He would have wanted that."
As the priest looked around at the gathering, MC could see heads nodding, whispers of agreement weaving through the crowd. The young priest reminded them with his earnestness of the good William had done and the ripple effect of love and kindness he had created.
"We will miss him so, but let us applaud the time that we were blessed with him. Now, who can raise their hands in this room and relate one funny memory about Grandpa William?" The priest called upon all of a sudden, in one beat of a heart turning from grave to cheerful.
Something stirred in MC, wanting him to rise and offer something-any glimpse-into a man so profound as Jake's grandfather. He drew a deep breath in, and suddenly wasn't quite so sure if he was ready to face the crowd, let alone any sort of vulnerability.
"Let us remember him," the priest said softly, his eyes locking with MC's. "Not in tears, but in smiles and warmth we bring to one another. That is how we keep him alive in our hearts."
The room filled with an air of remembrance, of celebration, of shared bereavement, and of connectivity. And for the first time, MC felt that maybe this good-bye might just be a beginning, not an end.
The rest of the funeral was a blur, some sort of surreal parade of faces and voices that MC struggled to process. He didn't bother trying to listen to the town folks' stories about Grandpa William. The old man had been that sort of person everyone had a tale about, a pillar of the community whose loss was felt deeply by all. But for MC, these eulogies were torture to sit through. He sat stiff in his chair, made to face each speaker as the words of praise for William starkly contrasted with the memories of pain and betrayal they evoked in MC.
There was his 7th grade teacher, Mr. Thompson, who stood at the pulpit extolling William's virtues as a community leader. He recalled the umpteen times he had been harassed in Mr. Thompson's class-the day he finally summoned up the courage to seek help, eyes begging for his teacher to intervene. The memory of Mr. Thompson's indifferent gaze as he turned and walked away, leaving MC alone to his tormentors, stung years later1.
Then, there was this neighbor of his, Ms. Sheldon, who sounded emotional as she recalled William's goodness. MC's stomach churned as he remembered how she used to let him hang out with her sons and even invited him to their birthday parties. Now, she couldn't even look in his direction, cold hostility replacing the once-welcoming demeanor. She had forbidden her sons from being anywhere near him, and though MC didn't know exactly what she'd told them, he remembered the dread in their eyes that first day when they'd seen him after that fateful night. That dread had quickly morphed into the same cruel disdain that seemed to infect the whole town.
Each one, as he had approached the microphone, speaking of this or that greatness of Grandpa William, sent MC fidgeting in his seat-the sounds of their commendations mere dissonances against the composition of his memory. An uncanny event, listening to these speak so well about one man yet knowing how these people had treated him, and for several, he could recount their cruelties or aloofness. Others had simply chosen to avoid him completely, their silence just as damaging as open hostility.
As the eulogies droned on, MC felt his hatred for the town grow, a dark twisting thing in his chest threatening to consume him. He found himself silently praying for their downfall, some cosmic justice to balance the scales. The weight of their hypocrisy pressed in on him, making it hard to breathe amidst the stuffiness of the church. He wanted this funeral to be over so that he could be out of the suffocating presence of these people who had turned their backs on him at the very moment when he needed them.
A soft touch on his shoulder jolted MC out of the dark reverie. He looked up to see his mother, her eyes soft with concern. "It's time for us to say goodbye to Grandpa William," she said softly.
MC blinked, once again aware of where he was. He looked sideways at the Whitlock family: Eva's tear-stained face, the stern faces of the men as they struggled to keep themselves composed. It would seem they were next in line, a courtesy brigaded to how close they once were with William's family. MC stood up, swallowing hard against the lump that had formed in his throat. It was finally time to face this moment he'd been dreading.
They walked to the coffin, MC's steps feeling leaden and uncertain. He steeled himself for what he was about to see, then looked down. There lay Grandpa William, dressed in a crisp black suit that seemed at odds with the vibrant, active man MC remembered. His eyes were closed, his face peaceful in eternal rest. MC was struck by how much older William looked, the lines on his face deeper than in MC's memories.
His gaze caught on the picture clutched in William's hands: a family portrait of the Whitlocks-smiling, comfortable in each other's company. It was one of those moments captured in amber, reminding starkly of better times, happier times, times which seemed now to have happened to someone else. MC felt a twinge of something-regret? longing?-as he looked at the picture.
He looked up and croaked; his voice was no more than a whisper: "Goodbye, Grandpa William. It was an honor to know you." At once, he felt the inadequacy of such words to frame the turmoil within him.
Then he nodded once and turned on his heel in the direction of his seat, with glaring following him. An exhaustion had thus overcome him. He instantly knew that it was useless to try to help those people let go of the past. They would surely want him to be the villain, and he could do little or nothing about it. What he could really do now was care for himself, his future, and leave behind that town with poisonous memories.
Maximus was joined quickly by his brother, small comfort against the antagonistic environs. "How do you like the funeral so far?" Maximus asked, trying to speak with casual ease in the grim surroundings.
"I never knew the fellow, so feeling-wise.niente," Maximus confessed after a moment, looking around at his brow furrowing. "But these folks-all they got are problems. What's up with them giving us the stink-eye in a funeral? "
"Yeah, that's one way to say it," MC couldn't keep from shaking his head as an acid smile twisted in his lips. "Let's just hope they won't cause a scene." He knew it was probably too much to ask, given the history of the town, but he clung to that slim hope that they could get through this day without incident. All he wanted now was for this to be over, to say his final goodbyes to Grandpa William and leave this place behind for good.
…
Maximus watched as the pallbearers-their faces tight, their shoulders square-lowered Grandpa William's coffin into the frozen earth. The shining wood seemed to drink in the wan winter moonlight, glacial against the blanket of snow so pristine over the graveyard. He tried to shut his ears to Eva's muffled sobs while Mom comforted her, rubbing small circles on her back. He paid more attention to the small snowflakes falling delicately, each one different in its crystalline form, and wondered how on earth they would have been able to dig a hole in this frozen, cold earth.
His gaze strayed to MC standing off by himself away from the crowd, leaning against a gnarled oak tree. The space between MC and the crowd was as wide as the distance between them, if not wider. MC would clearly have nothing to do with the empty words of condolence being afforded to the Whitlock family, his body screaming discomfort and alienation.
"You're MC's little brother?" The question cut through Maximus's thoughts as swift as a knife, and he turned to face Jake, his eyes brewing with emotion.
Jake's glare, less hostile than those he'd shot at MC, still had enough venom in it to make Maximus bristle. "Yeah, who's asking?"
Jake snorted loudly, the sound seeming to crystallize in the frigid air. "The audacity."
"Excuse me?" Maximus wasn't sure if Jake was talking to him or wrestling with his demons.
Jake's eyes bore into Maximus, a reflection of pain and anger clashing in his expression. "I never expected that he'd get his younger brother while my sister is lost and forgotten." The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken grief.
Maximus nodded. The burden of what he knew weighed upon him, yet he knew that only one question deserved to be voiced at the time. "Why are you so opposed to MC? It sounded as though you all had become great friends, and like you had certainly not blamed him for her disappearance, Emma."
"So you know the story," Jake's anger seemed to grow, an underlying fire on top of the ice in his demeanor. "Did he tell you what he did to me?"
That was one piece of the puzzle Maximus didn't have. He only knew that MC left because his life was in danger just by being in this town. MC had never said anything about doing anything to Jake in particular. "No. What happened?"
Jake's face twisted in anguish and anger. "Why don't you go ask him?" he spat out, turning his back on the two of them and moving away. "Tell that animal to tell you what he did to me, maybe then you will see just how despicably bad of a person he is.
As Jake walked away, his words still echoing in the crisp air, Maximus remained with a gnawing curiosity: what dark secret lay between MC and Jake? Meanwhile, MC watched from afar, his brow furrowed in concern, but he dismissed it quickly and pulled his coat tighter against the biting cold, silently willing the funeral to be over so he could retreat to the relative safety of home.
"I don't remember seeing you around," a voice so cool it could freeze water surprised MC, and he almost lost his balance against the tree.
Standing uncomfortably close was the priest who had led the funeral. His large puffy jacket seemed incongruous against his clerical collar but did nothing to soften his unnerving presence.
"Yeah, I used to be a resident here before moving out," said MC, with his every word forming small clouds in the freezing air. "I never saw you."
"Oh, that's rude of me. I should introduce myself," the priest's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "The name is Paul, but you can call me Brother Paul." He glanced down at the dispersing mourners around Grandpa William's grave. "I joined this town about four years ago."
MC did the math in his head - just over a year since he'd left. "I see. Well, nice to meet you, Paul."
"You too, Micheal Conner," Paul replied, his use of MC's name sending a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the weather. But before MC could question how the priest knew him, Paul had melted into the crowd, leaving MC with an uneasy feeling clinging to him like the persistent snowflakes on his coat.
…
MC lay on the bed, his mind a whirlpool of dread and confusion. The question of how Paul knew his name gnawed at him like a hungry rat, each possibility more unsettling than the last. He hadn't introduced himself, wore nothing identifiable, yet Paul had spoken his name with the easy familiarity of an old friend - or a predator who'd long stalked its prey.
His gaze darted to Maximus, who was lying across the room, sleeping soundly. The steady rise and fall of his brother's chest brought no comfort. MC knew Maximus hadn't spoken to the priest. So how? The question pulsed in his skull, a throbbing ache that matched his racing heart.
The fingers of MC's hands twitched in his desire to leap from bed and storm onto Paul's door, demanding answers. But the thought of wandering the dark, empty halls of this house, facing that unnervingly serene face again, turned ice through his veins. No, better to wait for morning. He'd be gone soon enough, back to the relative safety of White Rock and his carefully constructed routine. If he could only fall asleep.
3:15 AM glowed accusingly from his phone. MC stared up at the ceiling, tracing the cracks that, in the gloom of night, contorted like dark serpents. He groaned silently because he knew he needed to have refilled his prescription for sleeping pills a long time ago. Music may blunt his lonely vigil, but he risked a dead phone battery then. Not here. Not when he might need it for calling for rescue.
His eyes went to the window, searching for the numbing sight of falling snow. Instead, a face stared back, pale hair obscuring features. A little girl. MC's breath caught in his throat, a scream trapped behind clenched teeth. Not her. Not again.
He tried to wrench his gaze off, to squeeze his eyes shut, but his body betrayed him. Paralyzed, he could only watch as the girl cocked her head, the hair falling away to reveal something that, every time he had seen it, ruffled his sanity at its edges.
Her skin was a sickly gray, and her once light brown hair now hung as a matted, grimy mess. It was her face, oh God, her face that made the bile rise in MC's throat: where eyes should have been, there were only empty, weeping sockets. Yet somehow, impossibly, she seemed to see right through him, boring into his very soul.
"Help me." The words slithered from her lips, tumbling in a waterfall of twisting white maggots spilling from her mouth and the horrific voids where eyes should have been. "You need to help me.
MC watched in horror, caught in a terrible waking nightmare, as her skeletal hand pressed to the glass. The window creaked open. A gust of icy air swept inside, heavy with the stink of rot. She fell into the room with a wet thump that should have roused Maximus. Instead, his brother slept on, oblivious to the evil playing out feet from his face.
MC's body convulsed violently, his teeth chattering from cold or terror-he couldn't decide which. His eyes fixed on the tattered remnants of the cherry print dress, clinging to the emaciated frame of the girl. "Emma. I'm so sorry." he stammered out, his words bitter with guilt and fear.
Every visitation left him in doubt: was this the night Emma finally took her revenge? Her ghostly presence seemed to resent his trying to move on, to find some semblance of peace after the tragedy that had shattered both their lives.
"I wasn't planning on forgetting you," MC babbled, desperate words spilling out in a vain attempt to placate the vengeful spirit. "I just. I couldn't keep being that sad, broken person anymore. Please understand."
Tears streamed down his face as Emma's haunting refrain filled the room: "Help me. I need your help."
Her body contorted with a series of sickening cracks, forcing itself upright. MC just lay frozen, helpless, as she came shambling closer and closer to him. She loomed over his bed, her mouth open. Instead of words, a torrent of squirming maggots poured forth onto his face, impacting with a nauseating tickle.
He screwed his eyes shut, praying silently for it to be over. This was it; Emma would have her revenge at last, tearing his throat out or forcing the burrowing insects inside him until they consumed him from the inside out. He had it coming. The weight of his guilt bore down on him as surely as any supernatural force.
An eternity passed. It was now, when MC had mustered the courage to open his eyes, that Emma and her maggots had vanished. For one brief, shining moment, he dared to hope it had all been some sort of over-vivid nightmare. Then his gaze fell upon the window. There, traced in the freezing condensation by an otherworldly finger, were the chilling words: "FIND HIS STUFF".
MC lunged from the bed, slamming the window shut with shaking hands. Emma had spared him once more, but at what cost? His legs gave out and he crumpled to the floor, wracked with sobs. Tears of relief mingled with those of abject terror. He was alive, yes, but now faced with a task he couldn't begin to comprehend. What did Emma want him to find? Whose "stuff"? And what terrors did this ghostly demand hold in store for him if he failed to heed it?
When the first gray light of dawn seeped into the room, MC still sat on the floor, tormented by the realization that his past would never give him any peace.