Apathy by L.K. Reid

Skylar

Some nights I could sleep like a little baby, and my brother often joked how even a Third World War wouldn’t be able to wake me up.

Last night wasn’t one of those nights.

While Ash slept next to me in one of the guest rooms Danny sent us to after the scene with Kane, I couldn’t stop thinking about everything he’d said.

The Kane I knew never looked so disheveled, so scared. Not even when Zane went missing. He hated looking anything less but perfect, and to see him so distraught made me think twice about everything he said.

Yeah, he was definitely drunk, but that didn’t diminish the fact that he knew something but was too scared to voice it out loud. I got the feeling he would’ve never said what he had if he was sober.

What bothered me even more was the fact that Ash seemed to be unmoved by Kane’s words, because I was fucking terrified. It bothered me to the point where my overactive imagination started coming up with all these different scenarios, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I didn’t know anything about our town.

I didn’t know anything about our families, so I did what I should’ve done a long time ago.

I followed the letter I received the other day, and instead of going to school, I headed straight to the library. I wasn’t missing much, if I was being entirely honest. I hated Fridays at school and skipping today was probably one of the best decisions I had made in a while.

I couldn’t shake this weird feeling in my stomach that had nothing to do with the deranged maniac running on our streets, but had everything to do with Ash. What did I really know about him? Yes, he was allegedly born here, and he told me what happened to his parents. But why did they come back? And why was he so calm when Kane went crazy last night?

I had a million questions and no answers. I knew that even if I talked to him, he wouldn’t tell me the truth. I also knew he cared about me, but I understood better than most people that every single one of us carried secrets we didn’t want others to know about.

But what was he hiding? And the most important question that came to my mind as I glanced at the gauze on my arm, hiding whatever that monster carved on me—did he know who did this? I couldn’t bring myself to fully look at the scars he left behind, changing the bandages as fast as possible whenever I needed to.

I didn’t want to think this way. I didn’t want to think that Ash had anything to do with the disappearances at night and all the deaths putting yet another stain on our town, but I was paranoid.

Every single person that passed next to me as I walked down the street toward the library could be a suspect, so why not Ash?

Wouldn’t it be ironic that the one person I started caring about turned out to be a deranged killer? I could already imagine more pitiful looks, and the whispers behind my back. I could already imagine the look on Dylan’s face, and the disapproval on my father’s.

Little Skylar Blackwood, in love with the murderer.

I shook my head, trying to rid myself of these thoughts. Ash wasn’t a killer. Yeah, he was an enigma, but he wasn’t a killer. Or at least that’s what I told myself as I started climbing up the stairs, toward the library entrance.

As much as I hated Winworth, I loved the architecture. Our ancestors came from Europe, and if you paid close attention to the older buildings, you would recognize Gothic and renaissance styles mixed with the modern.

The town library was a clear example of it, with its high, arched ceilings and stained-glass windows. Sometimes I imagined I was somewhere in Europe, exploring the books hidden in the old libraries, containing knowledge I could never even dream of.

Two gargoyles stood perched up high on the wall, on either side of the tall, wooden entrance door, as if they were guarding the building with all their might.

I never asked who designed these buildings, but whoever it was really knew what they were doing.

Maybe they were guarding what I came here to look for. Maybe I would finally have the answers I desperately needed. As I entered through the already open door, I turned right, heading toward the wide staircase leading to the first floor.

The library was split into three floors, where the first one housed more modern books, mostly fiction. The second one was mixed, where you could find some of the greatest books ever written and non-fiction ones. The third one was the one I needed to go to.

I was there once, back when I was finishing elementary school, when I needed to write a paper on Mother Teresa and our teacher wanted us to actually use books rather than the internet to do so. The smell of old books was the first thing that hit me when I came here for the first time, and up until two years ago, I used to spend most of my time here, borrowing more books than I could read.

I just loved the smell of them, and the hidden worlds they all contained.

“Eleara?” A feminine voice pulled me back from my daydreaming, and as I turned around, I saw a very familiar face. A face I haven’t seen in a very long time.

What did she just call me?

“Mrs. Montgomery?” I smiled at the old librarian. I couldn’t remember the exact day when I met her, but Marissa Montgomery was always a part of our library.

She must have been in her late sixties by now, but the graceful way with which she held herself made her look at least ten years younger. Her long, gray hair was pulled into some kind of chignon on top of her head, and the glasses I always used to see her with were perched high on her nose, their dark rim highlighting steel-blue eyes.

Mrs. Montgomery was in her usual outfit—black suit pants and beige shoes with white tips, and a red blouse buttoned all the way up, with the sleeves rolled at her elbows.

“My God,” she gasped when I came closer to her, pressing one hand to her mouth. With widening eyes, she scanned me from head to toe. What had me worried was the sudden paleness of her face.

“Mrs. Montgomery?” I looked around but none of the other workers were anywhere nearby. I didn’t want her to collapse in front of me.

“You look just like—” She cut herself off and took a step back, still looking at me with a shocked expression on her face. “I’m sorry, Skylar.”

“I look like who?” Confusion laced every single word, because I knew I didn’t look like my mother, nor did I look like my father. Even my hair wasn’t as light as theirs was, but I always thought that Dylan and I had similar color eyes. “Mrs. Montgomery?”

I started sounding like a parrot, repeating her name, trying to figure out what was wrong.

But whatever she wanted to say and whatever spooked her seemed to go away as fast as it came, and in the next moment she straightened up, and smiled at me.

“No one, my child. You just reminded me of someone I lost a long time ago.”

But I knew who I reminded her of.

Her daughter.

There wasn’t a single occupant of Winworth that didn’t know the story of Eleara Montgomery. I wasn’t really sure what was the truth and what was a lie, but she went missing long before I was born, and she was never found.

Some said she ran away, that she couldn’t handle being in the small town filled with secrets. Others said that she was murdered, but her remains were never found.

She was just a few years older than I am now when it happened, barely twenty-two. I knew that her mother, Mrs. Montgomery, never stopped looking for her.

I couldn’t imagine the kind of pain Mrs. Montgomery went through, and I hoped I would never have to find out how it felt to lose someone you loved so much. I knew why she almost told me that I looked like her daughter.

From everything I heard, Eleara had long, blonde hair, just like I did, and the brightest pair of blue eyes. So I could understand why Mrs. Montgomery looked like she saw a ghost.

“H-how…” she cleared her throat before continuing. “How can I help you today? You haven’t been here for a very long time.”

And I hadn’t. So long in fact, that I didn’t even know if the sections were still the same.

“I know, and I feel terrible about it. But life got in the way, and I just…” I trailed off. “I don’t know. I guess I lost track of the things I loved doing.”

She blinked slowly, and her eyes shuddered for a split second, one moment before she smiled, and I had a feeling she was all too familiar with the feeling I was trying to describe.

“Well, whatever it was, I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too.”

She started walking toward the desk on the other end of the hallway, and I followed, while our steps echoed in the hallway. The right side was lined with the high, arched windows, and I could see City Hall from here, as well as the fog hiding the tops of the mountains separating Winworth from Emercroft Lake.

Nature here was truly mesmerizing, but the people were a stain, and I hoped that one day in the future, this town wouldn’t be plagued by the monsters hiding in the dark, wearing their perfect little masks in the daylight.

Monsters like my father.

Monsters like the man that attacked me.

“What happened to your arm?” she asked out of nowhere as we reached her desk. We both knew what happened, the entire town knew, but she still asked, and I couldn’t be angry at an old lady for being curious.

I knew that people spewed their versions of the story, and I also knew that they somehow knew that it was my name carved on the bodies of all those dead girls, but I didn’t have it in me to care anymore. They could talk as much as they wanted to, but I wouldn’t entertain their crazy stories.

I decided not to react anymore, because that was what was feeding into their twisted stories.

“I had an accident,” I replied, begging her with my eyes not to ask me anything else. I didn’t want to think about that night, let alone talk.

The crazy messages had stopped since he carved me like a pumpkin for Halloween, and no other girls had disappeared so far. But that didn’t mean that it was over. No, I had a feeling it was just starting, but this time I wasn’t going to run and hide.

I had no idea if I would find anything that could help me to solve this, but I had to try. Whoever left that letter in my locker, they left it for a reason, and I would be stupid not to follow up. Besides, I was in a public library, and it’s been, what, two weeks since I got the letter.

If they wanted to harm me, they would find other ways. They wouldn’t leave me with clues.

“But you’re okay now?” She looked at me above the rim of her glasses, and I felt as if she could see inside my soul.

“I’m all good now.” I sounded too perky for someone that went through something so traumatic, but if I wanted to get over this incident, I had to at least pretend as if everything was okay.

Even if my hands still shook from fear every time I was left alone inside the house, I imagined it was because of low sugar levels and not the absolute terror I was still experiencing.

“I wanted to go up to the third floor, to read more about the history of Winworth. We have this assignment at school, and I couldn’t find anything on the internet.” I changed the topic before she could ask me anything else.

It would be a long time from now that I would be able to talk about that night without reliving everything as if it was happening right now. Maybe one day, but not today.

“O-kay.” She nodded and started typing on the computer. She didn’t comment on the sudden change of topic, and I was thankful for small miracles today. “I have your membership here.” She looked up at me. “Do you have your old card, or should I issue you a new one?”

“Could I get a new one, please? I searched the entire house for my old card, but—”

“Skylar,” she cut me off with a smile. “It’s okay.” The computer beeped, and she pulled out a white plastic card from the drawer and scanned it on the flat, square machine positioned next to the computer. “Here you go.”

The card hung in the air between the two of us for a second too long. A second for me to think if I really wanted to know the truth and what that poem meant, or if I wanted to continue living in this oblivious state of mind.

But I was tired of all the lies, secrets, and the history no one wanted me to know about.

I grabbed the card from her and with one final thank-you, I ran toward the elevator and pressed the button.

I just hoped I would find what I was looking for, even though I still didn’t know what exactly it was.

* * *

Two hours.

It’d been two hours since I arrived at the library, and all I was able to find were facts I already knew. The year when Winworth was established, the names of our founding fathers, and well-known facts I could find with a simple click of my mouse.

But there was nothing deeper.

I was getting frustrated with the lack of information here, and when I glanced at my phone showing that it was already five in the afternoon, I knew I either had to leave or make a plan.

There was still one part of the third floor I hadn’t checked. In the far corner, right next to the statue of a weeping angel that was actually creeping me out, stood a cupboard probably older than me, with several books on its shelves.

I stood up and closed the book I was currently reading, and started walking toward the cupboard with glass doors, ignoring the eyes of an angel that once probably looked beautiful. But time got to him, and the once white marble now looked dark, creating a sinister feeling to it.

And who the fuck put statues of angels in libraries these days anyway?

People of Winworth, that’s who.

You know how every town had that one person that was allegedly crazy? Well, our town was filled with crazies. I looked back at the angel and remembered Molly Stallen. An old lady who lived on Crosshaven Street, near our school, who spent her life walking on the streets alone and talking about those that were hiding in the shadows and angels that would save us.

Somebody should’ve told her that there was no such thing as salvation in a town like Winworth.

I scanned the dusty shelves, looking for something, anything, any kind of title that could tell me more about the history of Winworth. When I saw a familiar sign, my entire body froze.

While I hadn’t recognized the symbol on the mysterious letter, I knew this one. I’d seen it before, heard about it through the stories told by my father and grandfather. Hell, it was in my house, carved on the door leading to the attic.

Ouroboros.

The original symbol of infinity. A snake eating its own tail, living, dying, and over and over again, for all of eternity. Dylan had this same symbol tattooed on his chest, and when I asked him about it, he just said it was a family legacy.

A legacy I had no idea about.

But the circling snake wasn’t the problem and what had me stopped in my tracks. The problem was the symbol resting within. The same symbol that was on that letter, only that one didn’t have a snake circling the triangle with upturned ends.

The sound the door produced once I opened it made the hair at the back of my neck raise up, sending goosebumps all over my skin. I had a feeling I was about to find out a lot more than I wanted to, but the truth was at the tips of my fingers and I’d be damned if I ran away now.

The dust rose up and blew in my face, infiltrating through my nose, going all the way to my lungs. My throat seized, and an involuntary cough escaped from my chest, making me take a step back.

Why the fuck was nobody cleaning these shelves?

I could feel the tears gathering in my eyes, and as my vision blurred, I just hoped that there wasn’t anything else mixed with the dust. The last thing I wanted to have was some weird bacteria to start spreading through my system.

And that fucking angel was still staring at me, as if it was daring me to take a new step, to see what was inside the book.

So I did. I took a step back, fighting the foul taste in my mouth from all the dust I inhaled, and took a book from the shelf, turning its front side to me. Secrets of Winworth was engraved into the leather cover, cracked and dusted, kissed by time. There was no author listed, just the title and the dark broken leather.

“What in the—”

I walked backward and sat down at one of the tables closer to the cupboard, right next to the high window casting the last rays of sun for the day. The golden lettering was beautiful, without a doubt, but as I touched the front side, a tremor ran through my body, coiling in my gut with fear.

I willed myself to open it up, and the smell of old, of forbidden, of secrets and stories I could never imagine, slammed into me as I placed my palm on the first page, gliding over the text written in cursive, right in the middle of the page.

Sanguinem Sacrificium

Sanctum Sacrificium

Vita Tua

Vita Meae

Tuo Amore

Sanguinem Meum

Did it really have to be Latin? Though I might not have been fluent in it, I did know what Sanguinem meant.

Blood.

I pulled my phone out, just in case the need for a translator arose, but when I moved from that opening yellow page, I saw that the rest of the text was in English.

“The Beginning”, the chapter title read, and I looked down, going over the text.

“Winworth was founded by five, to represent the five sides of His Unholy Majesty.” My eyes almost popped out. “Five supremes, five to rule, and five to bring His rule to the new soil.”

Was this… Was this book saying what I thought it was saying?

“Forsaken by the Old Countries, they sought shelter in the New World, fleeing away from those that wished them harm. From those who couldn’t understand their mission.”

No, no, I would know. I would know if our ancestors came from something sinister.

“Five commanders and ten Red Maidens,” I read out loud. “They were brought here to strengthen the bonds and to unite the blood. Blackwood, St. Clare, Lacroix, Maddox and Crowell—”

Wait.

No, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be what I was looking at.

Crowell. The fifth family. Crowell, just like Ash.

Asher Crowell.