City of Souls

Very rarely did one find a rural, untouched area in Wildemoor, but Porter seemed to be an expert at it. “Just three more blocks to go,” he muttered to himself, twirling a leaf he’d picked up from the ground by its stem. And it was funny to think about, honestly, because Crow Street was the exact opposite of rural and untouched. It was simply abandoned.

He knew an old store just on the corner of Crow Street by the name of Silver Pioneer. Porter had heard plenty of stories about how Silver Pioneer housed several lost souls and drug feigns. And he knew that ninety-nine percent of that was true, besides the ghost part.

Porter pushed open the tattered, wooden door and let himself inside. It smelled like archaic beer and mothballs. The place is covered in mirrors—literally. It’s like Pioneer John Brownlow was a narcissistic drunk, conceited and pot-bellied. Porter found rickety stood to sit on, by what was once known as the bar area. There was no doubt that this was originally a pub, Porter decided. And once sat down and situated, he pulled out the notebook that he’d hidden under his shirt before he left.

He began writing about the Silver Pioneer, in more detail than needed. He described everything; the broken glasses scattered about behind the bar counter, the several mirrors hung crookedly on the walls, and even the dilapidated wooden tables. From the corner of his eye, he saw something in the mirror. Most importantly, he saw himself. Most people would laugh at him, but it was as if he was seeing himself as a ghost.

Porter stood up and walked toward the tall mirror. His body was transparent almost and his face was etched with wrinkles. He’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t scared. But Porter figured that he was just paranoid and hallucinating because when he blinked, what he saw in the mirror was just him and him only. And that was enough to send him home.

His mother was standing by the door when he walked into the house, her dark hair pulled into a tidy bun. She wasn’t smiling nor frowning, but she sent off an aura that told him that she wasn’t happy. Harold Oaks was gone, too—he only knew because his smell was no longer lingering everywhere. “Where did you run off to, Porter? Do you know how worried I was?”

“All I did was walk to the park,” he answered simply, shrugging noncommittally. “What? Did you think that grandpa’s ghost came back and kidnapped me?” His mother gasped, as if he’d just told her that he’d sacrifice her to Satan, and demanded him to sit down in the living room where she could keep an eye on him. He did as he was told, laying the notebook on the coffee table. He then questioned, “Why must you treat me like I’m ten? I graduate from school in less than a year. What are you really worried about?”

She didn’t answer him. She just huffed, picked her head up, and disappeared into the kitchen. He knew that she was upset with him, so he didn’t chase after her.

The house phone was ringing and since he was sitting right by it, Porter stood up and answered it. “Hello, random caller. You have reached the Wells residence. How can I assist you?” It took every fiber of his body to keep him from laughing.

“I’m calling for Michael Wells,” the caller replied. “This is the—”

“I’m sorry, but Michael Wells no longer lives here. I haven’t spoken to him in almost seven years. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” Porter didn’t wait for the caller’s reply. He put the phone back on the hook and sat back down on the couch.

Why would anyone be calling there for him anyway? He and Anastasia had cut ties years ago when he told her she was too moody and too dramatic for him. As if on cue, Anastasia walked into the living room, holding a pot. “Who was that?” she questioned.

“I don’t know. They were calling for dad, anyway.”

She scowled. “What did they say?”

“Just that they were calling for dad,” he told her.

“Okay, that’s fine. You can go upstairs now. I’m just going to go finish up dinner.” She forced a thin smile onto her face. “We’re having spaghetti and garlic bread, so don’t sneak anything to eat between now and then.” Anastasia’s smile faltered as soon as she stepped over the border of the living room, going to finish dinner.

Porter grabbed his notebook from the coffee table and treaded up to his room. His mind was dismantled for the moment, like a door hanging off of its hinges. He tossed the notebook underneath his bed and fell back onto the bed. He concluded that today had, in fact, been a very odd day, starting with Harold Oaks trying to make pitiful conversation to Porter seeing mirages.

It wasn’t the first time that Porter had taken a trip to Silver Pioneer. When he did, though, he usually had Nate and Casper with them, who usually brought along their cameras and cellphones. What was it that he had seen? Was the teenage boy hallucinating or was what he saw actually real? He shook his head, deciding not to worry about it.

He grabbed the corner of his blanket and wrapped it around his body. He squeezed his eyes shut, urging his eyelids to stay close by his bottom row of eyelashes. He urged himself to breathe consistently, inhaling and then exhaling the way he had been doing for seventeen years.

Porter fell asleep soon after. Even then, he begged his mind not to paint images of what he had seen earlier, of what he had experienced earlier. But could he really stop himself from thinking about it when it the main consistency of his thoughts? Porter tossed and he turned. He kicked and rubbed his feet against his calves. He might’ve even whimpered in his sleep, because he was dreaming of something so surreal, so haunting. He might’ve even begged God for mercy in his sleep because dear God that boy needed mercy.

Porter awoke hours later, practically around six o’clock. In attempts to release the poison from his mind, he poured himself a glass of eggnog downstairs and turned on the news. Apparently, part of the city was still aflame. It wasn’t beautiful anymore, though. It was quite pathetic.

“The city is still aflame,” Mayor Flicker said, resembling a stuffed turkey. His brown hair was slicked over to the right. “The city is still aflame.”