1st 5 Pages Sept Workshop - Hillman

Name: Amy Hillman

Genre: MG Paranormal

Title: Leave

 Chapter 1

The one-hundred-twenty-year old building blocks out the noon sun like an eclipse. It casts a monstrous shadow that blankets the surrounding wheat fields in darkness. Dad puts the Jeep in neutral and lets it coast to a stop while we crane our necks, unable to comprehend the whole building from this close. White pillars support a flattened roof, veiled by wild rose vines that threaten to take over one side of the entrance. 

I tug my ear buds out, letting them hang around my neck and push open the door. Heat laced with sticky humidity slaps me in the face. A rush of wind shoves the door back at me as if it’s shouting a warning to leave while I still can. Escaping the car becomes a vicious game of tug of war with legs that need to learn to walk again after riding in the car for twelve hours.

      

Dad trots around to our side to hold the door open for Mom. “Pretty neat building. Isn’t it?” he shouts above wind that roars loud enough to drown his voice to a whisper.

“For a place that’s been everything from an orphanage to an insane asylum,” I mutter, cramming my buds into my pocket.

      

Mom ruffles my shaggy hair that’s the same mop water brown as hers. “Jack, where’d you get that idea?”

“From the internet.” I kick a rock toward the building and it tumbles a few feet before it stops abruptly, like it doesn’t want to get any closer. “Do we really have to live here? Why can’t I stay with Grandma and Grandpa for this round?”

      

Dad takes a deep breath and ignores my question. “Smell that fresh air.” He exhales stretching his arms up over his head exposing his belly which makes me snort laugh. “And yes, we do. Come on we have things to get done before the veterans arrive.” Tilting my head to get a whiff, I don’t notice anything but sun burnt tar from the little two-lane highway and the chemical exhaust from the Jeep.

Mom side hugs me as she rests her head on mine to answer my question. “Because we’re a family. And because we want you to know what it is to make a real impact in the lives of others.”

I bite back the snarky comment on the tip of tongue. I want to say they can keep their impact and I’ll keep my friends, soccer team and bedroom. She pops the back on the Jeep and then slings her bag over her shoulder. Together my parents walk arm and arm toward the front of the building. They disappear at the top of the steps as if the monster swallowed them whole.  

The hot wind sneaks through my shirt drying my sweat and leaving me salty sticky. Rocks and dirt crunch under the wheels of my overstuffed suitcase until a pothole hidden by creeping weeds bumps the case onto its side. The handle twists out of my hand causing the case to belly flop into a mud puddle. Specks of dirt splash up my leg and the side of my cargo shorts.

My parents are too busy with unpacking to pay any attention to me, same as every other time we’ve relocated. Neither notice I’ve given up lugging the case toward our new home sweet home. They both scurry up and down the cement steps as if they’re running soccer drills, unloading the last of the boxes from the Jeep. The case, too heavy for me to turn over on my own, provides a quick spot to wait for someone to notice me.

The movers lower the lift on the back of the moving truck while my parents impatiently check their phones for reception. By the look on Mom’s face and the way she scrunches her nose before shoving her phone in her back pocket, I can tell the reception sucks.

A sliver of warmth crawls behind my ear like a snake and causes panic to worm down my back. I whip around, expecting to find one of my parents playing a joke on me. Nothing, but the red brick building lurks behind me.

“This wind’s terrible!” My mother says. My scruffy hair whips me in the face and I’m wondering if I should’ve agreed to that haircut Dad offered. One of the moving guys hands her a box marked with a red x, which for today means kitchen. Green checks are for my parents’ room and blue stars are for my room. Stars are yellow, but yellow is hard to see on cardboard moving boxes.

“There’s nothing to break the wind for miles,” Dad says, enunciating the word miles like it’s two words. His shirt whips and twists around him forcing him to tuck it into the sweatpants cut offs he reserves for moving days.

“Come on sport, lots more to do.” He flips my suitcase up right. “Shame about the mud.”

As if the wind hears our complaints, it rests. In the immediate still, nothing makes a sound. No chirp, no creak, nothing. The severe lack of all noise pushes my heartbeat into my ears. Complete silence is deafening when you’re used to the neighbor’s dog barking. 

“Better get to work, if we want to get done anytime soon!” he yells. His voice booms louder than needed. “Look at that. The wind stopped.” He ties the string to his sweatpants shorts.

The bulging suitcase slaps my heels with every step, forcing me to waddle like a duck to avoid scuffing my shoes. The case bangs against each slab with a gritty thump. A wheel lodges in a crack near the top and the case refuses to go any further. Leaning back, I yank with all my weight and the crack finally releases its grip. The porch catches my fall and bruises my tailbone. The case slams into the top step breaking off a wheel. A deep throated laugh echoes around me.

A giant oak tree guards the entrance and through the half-dead branches a man’s image peers out of a second story window. The shape blurs and shimmers like a reflection in wavy water. When I squint, the light bounces off the top of his skull only faintly covered with skin. I scramble backward, crawling like a crab and scrape my fingers on the rough cement. I tilt my head to one side in time to watch as the fog from his breath fades from the glass. I squeeze my eyes hard, hoping I’m imagining things. My chest heaves in short bursting huffs. I squint one eye at the window. No one’s there. I must be tired from the long trip.

Dad whistles his way toward me. With one hand shading his eyes, he looks to see where I’m gawking. One dried brown leaf twirls and tugs but the stubborn oak won’t let go. It acts as if it’s alive as it claws at its neighbors. It makes the same kind of scratchiness as someone folding over newspaper sheets. All of the other leaves hang motionless in the absence of the wind.

“That tree must be as about the same age as the building.”

I rub my tailbone. “I thought we were the first ones here.”

He holds out his hand to help me up. “We are. The veterans won’t arrive until next week.”