Summer Sons(100)

The fingers of his left hand had gone white with a tinge of blue. He tucked them under his leg to warm and wiped his damp face on his shirt. Once he regained the feeling in his hand, he picked up the ring from the desk, playing it along his palm. Eddie might fade from the world, but he had a handful of things left to hold close. Platinum meant forever; he wasn’t sure if he intended his gesture as an apology to the friend he’d loved or a reminder of his responsibility to him. The band slid snug onto his left ring finger, as if made to match the hand Eddie had held on the dorm balcony years before, when he’d been marked a second time.

The moment the platinum met the base of his finger it throbbed a spike of brutal, eldritch strength straight through the bones of his hand; his tenuous control shattered in an instant. The oceanic drag of that power rolled him under from the inside out. He fumbled at the ring but couldn’t remove it as blackness ate at the corners of his vision. He staggered to his feet, concentration fractured as his blood throbbed with an answering grave-hungry desire.

Floorboards smacked his knees, the mattress soft under his cheek. Eddie’s remnant scraped inside his skull, at once inescapable and immaterial, not as gone as he’d thought. He’d called it out of loneliness, and he was paying the price under the crush of its starvation, its jealousy, its anger. Andrew toppled to the side, a rag doll, confused to see his arm lift without his consent. His fingers hung limp, but his wrist straightened. Ring and tattoo both seethed with the absence of color, as if the specter had wrapped itself around them. His heartbeat skipped and stuttered with painful jolts—then hung at a standstill.

He clenched his fist, or tried to. His fingers remained motionless, arm hanging sore at an inhuman angle. His chest cavity seized, spasming. Looped, distorted sound chewing inside his ears cleared into a toneless repetition of comehomeI’llbewaiting. Consciousness fluttered in tatters. With an effort born of fervent terror, he fought loose of the revenant’s grip long enough to slam the back of his head against the floor. Color burst in a halo across his vision, pushing at the dark; his arm dropped to his chest. Free for a moment, he heaved a gasp. His pulse kicked sluggishly for three uneven squeezes, then double-timed into a frantic sprint. Blood burned in his veins, coursing with unleashed potential at full tilt. He shoved the gush of energetic power into the ground beneath the house and the land past that, ripples like sonar pinging him with impressions of all the bodies of dead things, human and otherwise, scattered for miles around.

That explosive push redirected the river-rushing flow, and he visualized clenching a fist tight inside him, tighter, boxing shut what remained of the seething mass. The buzz faded, haunt dissolving with a shredded hiss into the afternoon sun once again. He rolled over and crawled to the bathroom to run the tap for the tub as hot as he thought safe, wrestling out of his jeans to climb in, still wearing briefs, T-shirt and socks. He spat a filthy litany of curses as he waited for his muscles to unlock in the broiling water. When the shivering stopped, he said to the dead space, “Are you trying to kill me?”

Nothing answered.





27


Hello Andrew,

Have you been successful in your attempt to access the monograph you mentioned? I’ve been unable to locate a copy with colleagues. Additionally, how is your write-up coming along? I’m eager to read the full transcription of the interview.

—Jane

Hello Andrew,

Thom informed me during our morning meeting that he’s resigned from mentoring you after a disagreement over Edward’s research materials. I was unaware of your recent absences. Please reach out as soon as possible to discuss your situation. If you need to withdraw and defer, I’ll assist with the process; we’ll continue with the research regardless, if you’re willing.

Please allow me to help you.

Best,

Jane

The third and final email in his inbox from Dr. Troth, time-stamped to 11:45 P.M. from the prior night, was short and simple:

Hello Andrew,

I’m growing concerned, as I haven’t heard from you. Are you all right?

—Jane

Sam finished reading and said, “So y’all think something’s off about her?”

“Yeah, but him dying fucked her over too,” Andrew said.

Sam leaned on the arm of the couch and Andrew sat square in the middle. Rain pattered on the roof. Tested patiences weighted the air in the room like damp humidity. The distraction of Sam in thin sweatpants and a white undershirt, tired from his afternoon at the garage but clean-smelling from a quick shower, dragged at animal parts of Andrew that had lain smothered for months, or years. Bleak longing of another sort bided its time, his loitering shade casting its pall over their shoulders. The lump on the back of his head reminded him of its constant threat. With each successive slip-up his control grew weaker and less efficient; at this point a menacing chill clung to his bones whether he fought loose of the phantom’s influence or not.

“What about your lost lead?” Sam asked.

“West didn’t do it, he wasn’t even in the state. But Troth was using him and Eddie both, so it wouldn’t make sense for her to kill him. Eddie disappearing just threw a wrench in her plagiarism plans,” he said.

“Now she’s getting pushier because she thinks you’re going to give up before she gets hers,” Sam said.

Andrew sighed. “Yeah, so there has to be someone else. One of those other interviews, or just—something we’re totally missing.”