BHS Inkwell 2017-2018

“Ugh,” I say. “Can we leave already? I don’t think this made-up cult of yours is coming.” “I can’t believe they’re not here,” he says. “I’ve seen them up here before, wearing black robes and holding torches and chanting.” “That sounds like something straight out of a low-budget horror movie,” I say, standing up. “Maybe it was just a dream you had.” I walk out into the Meadow, stretching out my legs. “Are you calling my imagination low-budget? Wati! Annie, don't go out there,” he warns. “They could be here any minute, it’s not safe.” I walk a little farther, still trying to uncramp my left leg. Up ahead of me, I see something dark on the ground, approximately in the Meadow’s center. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing. Rufus stands up, craning his neck to see. He steps cautiously out from under the shelter of the trees and jogs over to me. “I don’t know,” he says. We make our way over to the object, which turns out to be a circle of large, square-ish stones with a pile of ash in the middle. “Huh,” says Rufus, bending down to examine the stones. “They look heavy.”He tries to pick one up, but only succeeds in flipping it over. “Whoa,” he says. “What is it?” I ask, moving closer to see what he’s looking at. “Whoa,” I echo as I look down at the place where the stone used to be. Someone had dug a hole underneath the stone and placed several objects inside of it. Rufus picks them up, turning on his flashlight so that we can see them better. He spreads them out on the ground so that we can see them: a faded black and white photograph, a small velvet pouch, a rabbit’s foot, and a handful of dried daisies. “Hey,” I say, pointing at the photograph. “That looks just like the lady that we talked to the other day on our run, the one who was so angry about the town’s decision to sell the Meadow.” “Look,” says Rufus, flipping it over. “There’s a year written on the back… 1854! This thing is ancient.” “I guess it’s her grandmother or something,” I say. “But it looks exactly like her,” Rufus says. “What’s in the little bag?” I ask. Rufus opens the velvet pouch. “Teeth,” he says. I look closer. “Oh my gosh, are those human?” Rufus shines the flashlight on them. “I think

“That is so gross,” I say, turning away. Rufus nods in agreement, putting the bag down. He flips over another rock. “There’s stuff under this one too,” he says. These objects are different: a small vial of clear liquid, a bird skull, a metal figurine of a pig, and another old photograph. “This one looks just like Joe the butcher,” says Rufus, pointing to the photo. I can’t help but agree.The man in the photo is identical to the local butcher. We flip over the photo. 1852 is written on the back in faded ink. We begin flipping over more rocks, unearthing more macabre objects and old photographs. Each photo contains an unsettlingly familiar face. “That’s Martha!” I exclaim, pointing to a photo of a woman with a sharp jawline and curly hair. “She goes to book club with my mom.” “I wonder if your mom knows her reading buddy is almost 200 years old,” Rufus snickers as he looks at the date on the back of the photograph. “No way,” I say. “Martha just turned 47.” “I’m sure that’s what she wants you to think,” he replies. “I bet this is why they want the Meadow so badly.They’re probably using it as a place to perform some kind of ritual that keeps them alive. No one ever pokes around here, so it’s perfect.They thought no one would ever find out.” “I guess it’s possible…” I say. “I’m not really sure what to believe.” “Hello, friends,” says someone behind us in a silky voice. We whirl around simultaneously to see a group of people standing behind us.They are dressed in black, flowing garments, and their faces are illuminated by flickering torchlight. “What are you doing out here in the Meadow so late?” asks the woman at the front of the group. Rufus and I back away. It’s as if the photographs that we unearthed came to life and are standing in front of us, all wearing too-tight smiles on their too- youthful faces. “Should we run?” I whisper, looking at Rufus. He doesn’t need to reply. I can read his eyes like Magic 8-Balls: signs point to yes. We take off, bolting through the Meadow, not looking back to see if we are being followed.Thorns scratch mercilessly at my bare ankles as we reach the forest, not bothering to find the path. It’s too dark to avoid running into things; we left our flashlights back at the stone circle. We fumble through the inky black maze of plants and soil, twigs catching on my clothing and leaves

so.”

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