At first, her ghosts are just shapes, but in time, they grow into themselves. Her sister cuts her bangs, and her husband starts writing lyrics again. The dog aggravates her parents. They\u2019ll spend eternity with a yapping puppy who won\u2019t train like Jack, their beloved golden who passed before them. The new dog thinks the grass smells like dead animals now\u2014and not the kind he\u2019d like to roll in or eat\u2014but ones that serve as a warning: nothing lives here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNothing leaves here.\u201d Momma\u2019s dyed-blonde hair has come back gray. She combs it incessantly. \u201cDeath isn\u2019t a place. There\u2019s no coming or going. We just are,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But Maggie tears into books and falls deep down dark-web forums. Maybe she can bring them back. \u201cBut you still are, aren\u2019t you? A shade, but still, a shade.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The how-tos and spells and rituals require wildly different materials. Some say sage and star anise and lavender. Others require goat blood and chants in writing Maggie can\u2019t understand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Your drawing needs darkness. It\u2019s empty, <\/em>her art professor says, standing over her unshaded bedroom sketch. The wooden bed she designed for her lover centers the room. Frankenstein’s monster, an antique dream, brought to life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Now, Maggie studies her husband; he\u2019s smooth not stippled. His songs are all about walruses. The night before the accident, they\u2019d watched a nature documentary about Arctic walruses and their disappearing habitats. Nowhere else to go, blubber-filled bodies fell slack from cliffs and bounced to their death on the rocks below. \u201cStop this,\u201d Adam says. \u201cYou don\u2019t know what could happen. We could change.\u201d \u201cRemember all those horror movies we used to watch?” her sister asks. “No,” Maggie lies. “But I remember watching Practical Magic<\/em> over and over.\u201d Mary\u2019s face fragments into crosshatches.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maggie smells butter. Mary is ten, and her cheeks are so full of popcorn when she laughs, it spills out the sides of her mouth and onto the couch they share. The movie is loud, but they are louder, and soon, Momma stomps up the stairs. You know better than this, Maggie. Y\u2019all are keeping us up, <\/em>Momma says.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDo you remember what it\u2019s like to be alive?\u201d Maggie asks each of them, but none will say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Build it! <\/em>her professor says, pointing at her pencil. Maggie\u2019s grip tightens. The dots grow in the corner of the room, multiplying, creeping toward the bedpost. That\u2019s more like it<\/em>, he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When she goes to bed, curling wooden arches threaten and cradle her. She sleeps on her husband\u2019s side and buries herself in her momma\u2019s quilt, squares of ornate flowers and ferns. When she wakes up, time starts over. She opens her eyes and peels the quilt back. Under the bathroom mirror, hot water steams from the tap, and Maggie draws shapes in the fog with her finger pad. A dog, a car, silhouettes of necks, twisting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ________<\/p>\n\n\n\n Blake Bell enjoys writing and teaching teenagers writing in South Louisiana. Find some of her recent work in<\/em> Entropy Magazine, The Adroit Journal, and<\/em> X-RAY Magazine, or visit<\/em> blakelbell.com<\/em><\/a> and follow her<\/em> @blakelbell<\/em><\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"