My little sister once spent an entire month exploring the origin of masks. Her fits of passion are always leading her down one rabbit hole or another and like Alice, I simply scramble to keep up.
But deep in her process she demanded I take her to the library for some text she just had to have. I sulked through the first hour, vandalizing books out of boredom, but the more she talked, the more I got into it. So much so that, when the library closed, we headed home to make our own Papier Mache disguises.
To this day, they still hang in our room like the theatre mascots of comedy and tragedy: hers smiling, mine scowling. And while she soon moved on to explore other rabbit holes, I got stuck on masks. Particularly my own.
I’ve amassed a lot of them in the past eighteen years. Some for protection, others for sanity. Some to hide behind and some to be seen. Most I use situationally, but others I’ve worn so long they’re practically welded to my face. They chafe and tug at my skin but I’m too afraid to remove them. Afraid of what festers underneath.
It’s only within the privacy of bathrooms that I don’t feel the need for them. When I’m well and truly alone with no one to watch out for, no pressure to perform. When I can lock the door and shuffle through albums and albums of Nu Metal and 90s Grunge.
Luckily, the single stall, grocery store bathroom I currently find myself in, is perfect for just that.
Ironically, advertisements for human connection cover the walls of my fortress of solitude. Requests to call for a good time. Declarations of love and hate. Ugly self-portraits and medically inaccurate drawings of genitalia.
Cramming headphones in my ears, music blasts and I fling my arms wide, pretending I’m far away from here, playing drums on stage at CBGB’s. My short, blonde hair whips across my face on the downbeats, and I twirl my imaginary drumsticks as I gulp down the cheering crowd’s fictional praise.
That is until, a few songs later, a particularly erratic headbang shifts the cheap toilet seat beneath me. With a hissed, "Shit!", I throw a steadying hand against the tile wall as I’m dumped back to reality, to the grimy bathroom and the deuce that I’m finally able to drop.
My little sister once spent an entire month exploring the origin of masks.
It’s only within the privacy of bathrooms that I feel no need for them. When I’m well and truly alone with no one to watch out for, no pressure to perform. When I can lock the door and shuffle through albums and albums of Nu Metal and 90s Grunge.
Luckily, the single stall bathroom I ducked off to is perfect for just that.
Guess I should wrap this up. This is the fifth song I’ve listened to and my grace period is three.
The flickering lights split my tall shadow when I stand and the mirror over the sink is so streaked with soap scum that I barely see the girl staring back. She looks tired without all her masks. Stressed and pushed to her limits.
Time to clip the Big Three back into place. A Mask of Snark to deal with things outside of her control. A Mask of Bravado to bolster her near incapacitating self-doubt. A Mask of Apathy to hide the roiling oceans of guilt and grief constantly butting up against her skin.
"Oooh, it’s your fucking nightmare," I hoarsely sing to my reflection, jabbing a finger at her freckled face.
Masks reaffixed, I wash my hands and tug a beanie back over my greasy scalp. I need a shower. And a nap.
Bangbangbangbangbang!!
The pounding is aggressive even through my headphones so, with a sigh, I tug them off and stow my iPod in my olive-green bomber jacket. Then, yanking open the door, I glare down at the disrupter of my solitude, her fist raised to knock again. "Jesus, Ace. Can’t a girl poop in peace?"
Cute as a button with mounds of coffee colored hair framing her ski slope nose, pouty lips and heart-shaped face, my sister squints up at me. "Dad’s getting antsy. I told him you were probably just listening to Korn on the toilet again."
"Avenged Sevenfold, actually," I mutter.
"Well, you were in there forever," she scolds, hiking the straps of her leather backpack higher on her thin shoulders. "Are you eating enough fiber?"
Ace turned fifteen this past October and although her baby fat has melted to reveal high apple cheeks and a pointed chin, there’s still a sort of childlike quality to her. Especially now when she cocks her head like that and bats those thick, ebony lashes at me. A deception she’s not above using to her advantage if it helps her get her way. Because even though this tiny, pretty doll has the biggest heart and the strictest moral code, she’s a devious little thing.
"I assure you, my diet is full of nutrients," I insist, my lips quirking as ever over what she chooses to focus on.
Scoffing, she rolls her large doe eyes. "You had Bugles for breakfast. And I remember cuz you offered me your pinky."
A gentle tug on my sleeve propels me forward and I let Ace guide me into the grocery store proper. The chipper lights contrast sharply with my mood and I have to tamp down the childish urge to hiss at them.
Our father leans against a half-filled cart, tapping his thumbs as he scans the crowd. It’s six o’clock on a Friday and people are shopping like they’re doomsday prepping.
"You good?" Dad asks me, already exasperated.
"Yup. Dropped a nice, solid number two. Wanna see a picture?"
His nose wrinkles in disgust. "Why? Why would I want that?"
"For academic purposes. Obviously." I elbow him out of the way to take control of the shopping cart. "And you call yourself a man of science."
The grocery store is a Walmart knockoff with vivid yellows and blues splashed across the whitewashed walls and signs telling me to "Shop Organic" and "Shop Responsibly" and "Please Don’t Lick the Produce ;)". This close to the birth of the supposed Christ, green and red garlands run up and down the load bearing pillars and globs of poinsettias adorn artfully stacked crates, adding a festive air.
I trail Dad down the aisle as he throws various items into the basket, counting on me to decide what we actually need. Shaking my head at his more absurd choices, I hang back to reshelve the Grey Poupon and some sort of purple ketchup.
"Perrin," he summons and, pushing the squeaky cart to his side, I leave Ace to choose the cereal. "Your sister likes juice boxes, right?" he whispers, scratching at the salty stubble of his jaw.
I snort. "Maybe when she was a kid."
Behind black rimmed glasses, his eye twitches in annoyance. Probably because we’re both still kids to him. But he tosses the juice boxes in anyway and asks, "How’s she doing?"
We turn to sneakily watch as she weighs two boxes in her hands. Swimming in the navy puffer coat I gifted her, long, silky waves hide a face that I guarantee is scrunched in concentration as she evaluates which one has more fiber.
"We literally just got here," I admonish from the corner of my mouth. "She’s fine. Nerves of steel."
"Well, I don’t like this," he grumbles for the hundredth time. "Fifteen is too young."
"I was fifteen," I volley back.
"Yeah, but you’re, well, you."
"Thanks?"
"And Aceline is..."
"Tiny but tough?" No one gets to discount my sister, not even our father. "Smart, capable, and impossible to argue with?"
He sighs, no more in the mood to rehash this argument than I am. "Just, help me keep an eye on her. Please?"
"Both eyes." Jabbing two fingers towards my face, I stab them in her direction. "At all times."
Dad nods and moves farther down the aisle, the crowd parting before him. He’s a big dude and with his wide shoulders, deep wrinkles and long limbs, people respond appropriately. Little do they know that he’s just a huge, blond nerd who firmly believes the pen is mightier than his fists.
I heft the juice boxes, my gums already aching at the thought of all that sugar, when Ace materializes at my side.
"Keep ’em," she says, dumping her cereal choices into the cart: a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and something called FiberFit. "I like the berry flavor."
"Alright, just don’t complain when you end up with like, seventeen cavities."
I’ve lost Dad in the throng so I push the cart past her and into the dairy section. As far as I’m concerned, big dairy propagated the myth that milk stimulates bone growth, but Ace is small for her age so every little bit helps.
It’s practically deserted, an odd contrast to the lively swarm even one aisle over. My Spidey-sense immediately starts to tingle and I slow my pace to take stock. It’s colder here, as one might expect. But underneath the chill of refrigeration, is a deeper, crueler sort of bite. One I feel not only against my skin, but in my blood, creeping and crawling up my arteries.
Head on a swivel, I skirt around the only other person in sight, an old man struggling to pick up a gallon of two percent. Overbearing dread begins to pour from the frosty glass panels and I vaguely recognize that a good person would offer to help him, if only to hustle him to safety. Too bad I’m not that good of a person.
But safety from what? What’s the trigger here?
While I’ve felt this type of dread before, trained myself to run towards it instead of fleeing like a rational human being, it doesn’t make sense in this context. This is just a normal, random grocery store.
Unless…
Ace, kinder than I’ll ever be, approaches the old man and tucks an errant lock behind her ear. "Can I help you with that, sir?"
He waves her away with a, "No thank you, young lady. Very sweet to offer though." And succeeds in dumping it in his cart.
But as he shuffles off, that unnatural chill spikes, icy fingers tap-dancing across my shoulders. I turn into it and a faint smell hits my nostrils, like spoiled milk or rotten eggs. Uh oh.
My sister shivers. "You feel that?"
"Yup," I reply, running my gaze over the wall of refrigerators. Two doors down, movement hooks my attention. There’s someone skulking behind the rows of dairy products, deep in the darkened recesses where only employees dare to tread. It could simply be one of them restocking the shelves or performing some other mundane task, but my gut tells me otherwise.
Abandoning the cart for a closer look, I approach warily, motioning for Ace to stay put. Pressing my face to the glass, all I see beyond my cupped hands are stacks of cream and cartons of eggs. Barrels of cheese and crates of butter.
But then something else enters the frame. A single, milky white eye, glowing in the darkness, its owner half hidden in shadow. Those icy fingers dig punishingly into my back as it catches sight of me, otherworldly empty and cruel. And when the dead, teenage girl it belongs to steps forward and all saliva evaporates from my glands, I grasp the reason there’s only one eye. The other has been blown away, along with the top half of her skull.
She tilts her incomplete head, tears streaming from that single, soul piercing orb and I jerk backwards as the glass frosts over, obscuring her and threatening to overtake my hands.
"Get Dad," I order, shaking out fingers gone temporarily numb. Ace darts away and I throw open the glass door, feet planted and ready to engage this denizen of Hell. But of course, the second I take my eyes off it, the Low-Level Demon has vanished.
This is bad. That thing shouldn’t be here. And it certainly shouldn’t have this strong of an effect on its environment. Twisting our world with its wraithlike aura. Most Low-Level manifestations only come out to play in the dead of night. They definitely don’t casually chill at the back of busy grocery stores, scoping out victims.
Dad skids to a stop beside me, an academic twinkle to his gray eyes. "Where’d it go?"
"The frozen pizza section."
"Perrin, please. Which one was it?"
"The girl. Linda something."
"Linda Serrano," Ace interjects, ducking under my elbow to get a better look at the refrigerator beyond. There’s no longer any trace of the punishing cold or the menacing demon, but nonetheless, she needs her own confirmation. "Bill Stanfill’s first victim."
Bill, Bill, Bill. She had barely blown out her birthday candles before she started blathering about her latest rabbit hole obsession. About how violent and mysterious this Bill Stanfill guy had been. A killer who snapped and murdered three randos in one night. Grisly stuff. I blame myself for letting her watch Forensic Files much too young. When I asked if she had a point, she slapped a manila folder full of press clippings onto the dining table. She wanted Stanfill’s victims to be her first case. Her first demon slaying expedition. As a birthday present.
This kid, I swear.
Dad gives the perimeter one last sweep. "And what do we know about this specific classification?" he quizzes.
"Low-Level Demons are lost souls born of violent deaths," Ace recites. "They have trouble moving on because they don’t want to admit they’re dead. Instinctively seeking out the living in an attempt to steal their lifeforce, abilities include aerial flotation, mild telekinesis and universe manipulation."
The corner of my mouth turns up. "Aerial flotation?"
"’Flight’, you pleb."
Dad coughs and gives a perfunctory nod. "Good. What’s our next steps?"
I toss a jug of milk into the cart as Ace deliberates. Demon activity shouldn’t lead to calcium deficiency. A few aisles away, a small crash makes my ears prick. Like a wine bottle shattering on the floor.
"We need to locate the other two victims. Odds are, they’ll be in and around places that feel familiar." She pauses and her eyes bulge with the implication that’s also struck me. "Which means... This is where she was shot!"
"Why do you think I brought us here?" Dad reveals. "And if my suspicions are correct, which they usually are, then they’re all haunting their former places of employment."
Another crash infringes on our conversation. Then a third, followed by a muffled noise similar to a baseball bat busting open a cantaloupe.
Without exchanging another word, Dad and I dash towards it, shoving people out of the way. Or rather, Dad shoves and I follow in his wake. I feel Ace on my heels when there’s the largest crash of all. A rolling, roiling, tidal wave of a sound that ends with the giant smash of something heavy hitting the floor. Screams fill the air and the crowd gets rowdy, fleeing smartly from the danger while we run straight for it. Just another day in the life.
As we approach, it looks like something has collapsed in the liquor section. Ok, I’m sure that happens occasionally. So, why the jostling? Why the panic?
The dense throng encircling the kafuffle refuses to budge via force so I take a more tactical approach. Slipping between two muttering blue hairs and climbing over a stroller brings me to the front, bits of glass and multi-hued liquids puddling beneath my feet. While the crowd looks on, making no move to help, a dark-haired employee in a blue vest, black slacks and white button-down struggles to lift a large shelf half buried in leaking bottles.
"Yes, please send paramedics immediately," babbles a similarly dressed older woman, clutching her phone to her ear. "I don’t know, it just happened."
And that’s when I see the hand poking out from beneath the metal. This shelf didn’t just collapse, it fell on top of someone. And whoever it is, isn’t moving.
Struggling Guy clocks Dad when he nears the front, picking him out for his obvious size. "Hey! Andre the Giant," he calls over the low, rattled din. "Give me a hand?"
Dad bristles at the nickname but rushes to his side, planting his feet so he doesn’t hurt his back. Together they heave, twin sets of tendons popping out of their necks as they manage to lift the substantial object off the motionless body.
"Perrin," my dad grunts and I shoot forward to kneel on the wet, glass strewn floor.
"A little higher," I urge them, hurriedly shedding my jacket and throwing it to Ace. The guys oblige, angling the shelf so I’m able to wiggle below and wrap my arms around the victim. Glass shards grind into my elbows and triceps but I grit my teeth, clench my core and inchworm him to safety.
"Oh no," Ace gasps.
Oh no, indeed. Cradled in my lap is the dairy obsessed old man. Or at least, it was. I throw an arm out, waving her back. "Don’t look."
It’s a gruesome sight. For starters, his head bares an eerie similarity to Serrano’s. It’s completely caved in, one side drooping almost comically as it leaks blood and brain matter. His mouth hangs slack and his eyes are still open, the one under the wound rapidly filling with crimson, some of it spilling down his cheek. So much for a cantaloupe and a baseball bat. Looks like it was a human head and a heavy bottle of Pinot Noir.
Putting two fingers to his neck, I check for a pulse but I already know where this is going. He’s gone.
My dad and the employee drop the shelf with a loud crunch, sending a wave through the wine puddle, splashing their shoes. The woman on the phone is crying now, detailing the damage and still the crowd looks on, whispering to themselves. I want to yell at them to go away. To stop rubbernecking at death. I hear the click of a camera somewhere nearby and it takes all of my very limited self-control to stop from launching in that direction. Vultures, every one of them.
I close the poor man’s eyes and stand, bits of broken glass clinging to the backs of my arms and red wine staining my front. A grumpy swipe has the shiny pieces tinkling to the ground but my outfit is completely ruined. Arrivederci, favorite Blondie shirt and second favorite pair of jeans.
A camera phone clicks near my ear and the sound drops a pebble in the deep well of anger I try to keep a lid on at all times. I whirl on its owner, a rotund, older gentleman with a horseshoe bald patch and sweat stains. Expecting to see his camera angled down at the body, being a creep, that pebble becomes a boulder when I see it’s pointed at me. At Ace. Seems he’s a creep of a different color.
He jumps when he catches me glaring and sweats even heavier as I stalk towards him. Snatching the phone with barely concealed rage, I hold it up before his face and snap it in half at the hinge.
"Hey! You can’t do that," he blubbers when I throw the pieces to the ground. "I need that."
"Don’t take pictures of my sister, you fucking pervert," I growl, thrusting a finger in his sticky face. "You’re lucky I only broke your phone."
He gasps in indignation but crumples when he gets a glimpse beyond the translucent mask of civility just barely clinging to my skin. Muttering something noncommittal, he slinks back to whatever hole he crawled out of, disappearing into the milling crowd. That’s right. You better run.
Ace, more than used to my volatile nature at this point, just stares at the old man. She’s paler than I like to see, clutching at the straps of her backpack with white knuckled fingers, dark brows furrowed over wide, brimming eyes. This is exactly why I told her not to look. It doesn’t matter if it’s your first body or your twelfth, death sucks. The stillness of it, the emptiness, it’s unnerving. I rotate her gently and she hands over my crumpled-up jacket.
"That blood?" she quietly asks, nodding at my jeans.
"No, just wine."
"What about that?" She points at the back of my arm.
I look, turning my triceps this way and that. "Oh, uh, yep, that’s blood. Wanna grab some bandages?"
She nods, thankful for an excuse to leave, and scurries away.
Meanwhile, the dark-haired employee also seems to have had enough of the insensitive mob. "Alright, people, break it up," he hollers to the remaining onlookers, windmilling his arms to herd them away. "We are officially closed. Please make your final purchases and exit through the front of the store."
A few people move, but the rest prefer tittering.
"You heard him! Show’s over!" Dad booms, his deep baritone cutting through the hubbub. "Stop taking pictures and get out."
The circle finally dissolves, with only a few more snipes and camera clicks. There are tarps an aisle over and I grab one, shaking it out to lay over the body. Everyone deserves dignity in death.
Order somewhat restored, the employee gratefully approaches my father. He’s rattled but reaches out to shake his hand. "Thanks for the assist," he says. "Poor guy. Did you see what happened?"
"No, we just heard a commotion and came running." Dad pumps the offered hand. "Seems like the shelf collapsed from the weight of the wine bottles."
As if he can see through the fib, the guy cocks his head in disagreement. There’s a Chinese cast to his features and some distant, hormonal part of me registers that he’s both closer to my age than I first thought and pretty cute for a grocery store employee.
"It couldn’t have, though. Look at the layout." He gestures to the spread of the chaos; at the way the shelving is still very much intact. "I heard multiple crashes. Like the bottles were being thrown. And when I got here, I saw it tip over, without anyone else around. Not collapse in on itself."
And there it is. Confirmation that this definitely wasn’t an accident. Linda Serrano had her creepy, incorporeal hands all over this. The validation does the opposite of setting me at ease. This dead chick is powerful.
"Could someone have run into it?" I suggest to lead him off the trail. "Or knocked it over with their cart?" If we went around telling everyone that demons existed and floated among us, we’d all get locked up in nice padded cells. What this guy doesn’t know, can’t hurt him.
Intelligent, hazel eyes land on me, surprise tipping quickly into skepticism. "Go run a cart into that shelf." He jerks his chin towards the one on my right. "See what happens."
Less than thrilled with his contentious tone, I flash him a humorless smile. "How ’bout I run you into that shelf?"
Dad silences me with a warning glance. "What are you trying to say, son?"
The employee surveys the scene, hands slung low on his hips. "I don’t know," he mutters. Then to me, the fight draining from his face, "Sorry, that was rude. I’m just... You ever have one of those weeks?"
"Try having one of those lives," is my curt response.
Brushing a knuckle against my upper lip, I leave Dad to wrap up and look for Ace. How hard can it be to find a first aid kit? Unease prickles in my chest as I realize I’ve already disregarded my father’s orders and taken my eyes off her. Maybe she got snatched. Maybe Serrano showed back up. Maybe that weirdo with the phone cornered her.
I swallow and force myself to chill. To believe in my own my objections towards Dad’s fears. That Ace is tough. That she’s got this. But if we’re being honest, he’s not the only one who’s worried about this case. My father and I are great at our job precisely because we excel in running headlong into danger.
But Ace... She’s my wild card. The Queen on my chessboard. Unpredictable and to be protected at all costs. And if she’s out here running with me, danger on all sides, then it’s gonna be hard to focus on setting my feet.
As if summoned by my doubts, she reappears with a box of bandages and some hydrogen peroxide. The color has returned to her cheeks but she pointedly avoids looking at the tarp covered blob.
"Yo, Ace of Spades," I whisper as she patches me up, tongue between her teeth. "Why don’t we just head back to the motel? Maybe watch TV, order some food, have a little staycation? Dad can take it from here."
Startled, she looks up, confusion swimming in her immense doe eyes. "Why would I wanna do that?" She must pick up on my obvious attempt to nudge her out of harm’s way, because her jaw slides forward stubbornly. "This is my case. I brought it to you."
"I know. I’m just concerned that it might be a little too much too soon."
"Stow it, P." She slaps the last bandage on a little too hard and pulls my sleeve back down. "This is what I’ve been training for. A little blood and guts never scared me."
Pride banishes fear and I smile at her plucky obstinance. Grasping the back of her neck, I tap my forehead to hers, reassuring myself that I’m not making a huge mistake in indulging this. That she really is ready. That we’re both gonna come out of this just fine.
Still chatting with the combative employee about proper shelving techniques, or lack thereof, Dad reaches into his wallet and hands over his business card. "My daughters and I have an appointment to make, but if you see anything else strange, please don’t hesitate to call."
"Sure thing," he consults the card in his hand, "Reed. Er, Dr. Slate."
Dad draws level with us, herding us away from the puzzled employee. "We should leave before the cops show up. Pay for the supplies and meet me back at the motel." He shoves a couple hundreds in my hand and glances at his watch. "I have to check something before it closes."
"What?" I stammer, tugging my jacket back on. "You’re leaving?"
"The dealership Jerome Hughes owned is nearby but closes soon. Which means I need to leave now, not wait to check out." He nods at the churning lines of people doing their best to follow his directions. "There’s a bus stop a block over that’ll get you close enough to the motel. I’m sorry but we have to get a jump on this."
While he does look and sound sorry, I’m livid. He’s constantly pulling this shit. Withholding information until the last possible second or until he deems it "pertinent". Expecting me to follow his every order without question. It makes me highly patricidal.
Then his gaze falls on Ace’s anxious face. My father is a smart man who does his best, but he tends to get a little awkward when we show emotion. So, I’m surprised when he pulls her into a hug. "Death is a part of the job," he tells her. "You can’t take it to heart. Ok?"
Ace nods into his chest and I think I hear her suppress a sniffle.
Over her head, Dad and I share a look. Neither of us were too pleased when she brought Stanfill’s victims to our attention. It seemed a little advanced for her even then. One Low-Level Demon wouldn’t be too crazy, but this is three. And if Serrano is anything to go by, it’s three super-charged ones at that. Our problem was, is, and always will be, that it’s hard for us to deny Ace anything she’s passionate about. I just hope it won’t prove to be a fatal mistake.
Dad leaves with a squeeze of my arm and I shove my hands in my pockets so I don’t throw a can of tomato paste at his self-centered head. Instead, I turn to my sister and wink. "You have two minutes to grab whatever junk food you want."
A mischievous grin instantly brightens her face. "Dad’s buying?"
"Dad’s buying," I confirm.
With an evil little cackle, Ace bolts for the more expensive snacks while I cautiously return to our abandoned shopping cart.
The dairy section is once again deserted, tendrils of frost curling from the bottom of the refrigerator panels and I keep my eyes peeled so I’m not caught with my pants down again. Stopping in front Serrano’s favorite door, I place a tentative palm against the pane, the scab on my middle knuckle pulling taught. Closing my eyes, I reach out with my other senses, prodding and poking with every keenly honed instinct for any further signs of something that shouldn’t be here.
Frigid glass leaches the warmth from my skin, but it’s a natural chill, no longer numbing or alien. That rotten egg smell has evaporated and nothing nefarious brushes against my consciousness. It seems she’s gone, for now. But she’ll be back. And probably sooner rather than later.
Rapping twice against the glass, I snag the cart. "Happy birthday, Ace," I grumble, stomping back down the aisle to join the slowly dwindling checkout line. "You sure picked one Hell of a present."