Worth The Shot

Ghost Story (C)

Your father spread a blank paper against the dark mahogany table. Its pale edges fluttered in the breeze from the window. He hovered a pen over the page like a weapon, his hand poised to strike.

"Really?" You irritably said. Your father shrugged powerlessly and touched a finger to his ear. Whatever. You'd just tell Dolores later.

Our Encanto, your father printed across the page in deliberate, slow handwriting, was ancient. Older than these mountains. He unnecessarily gestured to the towering cliffs around the village.

And our Candella family, like the Madrigals, had been blessed with a miracle, but for many, many generations. A mountain protected our village; we dwelled inside its caves and tunnels. We had no sun, but our miracle candle fueled enough candle flames for the entire population.

You shuddered, imagining a dark, damp series of twisting cave tunnels. Even dotted with lonely candle lights, the cave must have felt haunted and claustrophobic.

Nobody ever left. We were safe. Until, your father's eyes flashed with resentment, and an angry slant crept into his handwriting. My younger brother received his gift: Communicating with the dead. At first, he used his gift for good, connecting our people with the spirits of their ancestors. Sharing the ghosts' messages and warm regards with the people they had left behind.

As if reminiscing, your father sighed wistfully. You didn't voice how disturbingly creepy you found his brother's gift. A shiver skittered up your spine like an icy centipede. Are there spirits here right now? Can they see us?

My brother, he- your father's pen hesitantly halted, frozen, on the paper. He broke down. He snapped. He scared us all. His eyes became terror-stricken, his words turned rare and numb, and then came the possessions.

"The... what?" You nervously pressed. The back of your neck prickled as if you could feel the glazed, hollowed eyes of ghosts hanging on you.

Out of nowhere, he would double over and shriek. Your father glanced around fearfully. The attacks came suddenly. Anywhere. In the tunnels. Alone. In a crowd. He would desperately cling to the nearest person. His grip was stronger than death, crushing their arms with his fingernails until they bled.

We'd try to calm him down. We gave him glasses of water, but he'd shatter them with his bare hands and drip blood on the floor. We'd tie him down, but he'd struggle against the ropes until his wrist bones cracked. It was as if he'd disassociated from the world, from pain itself. "They're warning me," he'd scream. And then he wouldn't say anything except one phrase. "He is coming. He is coming. He is coming." Over and over again.

"Did you help him?" You demanded. I grew up there, you realized with a stab of fear. He was my uncle. This isn't just a ghost story; this is my history.

"I tried!" Your father whispered. He drove his pen into the paper. He destroyed the Candella family name. During one attack, he broke your cousin's arm. She was only three years old. There were protests, conflicts, demands to lock him up. Our family splintered apart, and so did the mountain.

The ceiling shattered, cracks swallowed up our homes, and the pressure of the mountain collapsed on our village. You and I escaped the crumbling mountain tunnels with a handful of survivors. They've been here every night, because we have a plan. A plan to rescue those trapped in the caves. Your mother. Your brother. Our family.

"Wait," You uneasily coughed. He was delusional. Those underneath the mountain would have suffocated or starved by now. "How many years ago was this?"

"Oh, (y/n)," Your father murmured, keeping his eyes focused on the paper as he dropped it into the fireplace. The flames licked its edges black. "It's only been three weeks."