Authors: Melissa Parkin
Superstition
I
honestly couldn’t say how long I spent staring blankly at the monitor in front of
me before I finally snapped out of my bewilderment and attempted to actually
put some effort into completing my biology report. Watching everybody else’s
fingers hard at work around me in the computer lab, I tried to get my head back
into the focus of my academics, but I wound up again finding myself doing
nothing but looking down at the keyboard with no motivation. The only thing I
could see was Jack and his petrifying, crimson eyes.
The
Baykok. I immediately opened up the internet browser and typed the phrase into
the search engine. The only paranormal website that provided any really
information on the folklore also included stories of UFOs and Bigfoot, but it
was the best I could do.
In
Native American culture, the Baykok is said to be a demon created by the blood
of war. Similar to the Romanian folklore of the Moroi, a vampiric ghost, the
Baykok draws its life source from the energy of the living, sometimes killing
those alive to fully obtain the power of those individuals by consuming their
spirits through eating their hearts.
Despite
the fact that this malevolent specter has not been seen in bodily form for
several hundred years, there are still accounts of those plagued by the Baykok
while in a dream state, ultimately perceived as an omen for death. Always
illustrated with its blood red eyes, the Baykok can be presented to Death’s
intended victims in many different forms. Sometimes mistaken for being a Fetch,
it can appear as a mirrored image of oneself or that of a loved one...
Then
Jack’s voice echoed in the corners of my mind. “Mors venit ad vos.” I
immediately punched it into the computer after backtracking to the search
engine. Nothing definitive came up, but each link had something in common. One
word. Latin. I entered in a new request, finding a Latin-to-English translator,
and typed in the phrase again. My hands slid off the keys as I gaped at the
monitor disbelievingly.
Death
cometh to you.
How
could this be? I didn’t know Latin. My subconscious couldn’t have possibly
conjured that up, yet there was something about it that I couldn’t quite put my
finger on. I looked back up at the phrase I had typed in.
Mors venit ad vos
.
Removing a notepad from my book bag, I scribbled the letters down, and it hit
me like a freight train as to why it looked so damn familiar.
M-O-R-S-V-E-N-I-T-A-D-V-O-S.
With
a simple reshuffle, I had it. That night in the library. The Ouija board.
A-D-V-O-S-M-O-R-S-V-E-N-I-T.
The
pen rolled out of my grasp as my hand went limp. This wasn’t possible. I suddenly
closed down the window and opened up a fresh search engine screen. One that
didn’t make mention to my untimely demise.
Remember
why you’re here. Biology. Osmosis and diffusion. Not because you’re crazy.
Nothing
could be done about my new conundrum right now, so I put on my mental-blinders
and charged forward in all determination to conquer the task in front of me.
Over thirty minutes went by before my concentration was broken.
“Psst!”
With
my nerves already tensed and my vigilance on high alert, I immediately jumped
at the sound. I whirled around and looked between the rows of bookshelves
behind me. In the third aisle closest to the backdoor, Gwen’s ruby locks hardly
made her a being of indiscretion.
“What?”
I mouthed.
She
beckoned me over, but I simply pointed at the computer monitor to indicate I
was working.
“Foster!”
she hissed, catching the attention of a few other students nearby.
I
again motioned to the screen. The last thing I wanted was to deal with more of
Gwen’s problems or conjured conspiracies. I had enough on my plate, with Death
and all. My eyes refocused to my research, and I pretended not to notice her
continued presence.
“Get
your boney ass over here,” Gwen finally sneered, her voice carrying just a
little too far and loud.
She
was given several harsh looks, along with a chorus of classmates telling her to
shush.
“‘Shh’
yourselves,” she snapped back.
Everyone
turned their expressions of annoyance to me.
“Can
you get rid of her, please?!” one student remarked.
I
finally kicked my chair out from under the desk and dragged my feet across the
carpet the same way a pouty six year old would when throwing a hissy fit.
“This
better be good,” I whispered.
“Grab
your things,” Gwen replied. “We’re getting out of here.”
“
We
?
No,
I’m
going back to finish up my report, then
I’m
going to
study hall. I can’t afford getting caught ditching school, especially when
there’s not that much left in the day.”
“You
walk away and I tell Ben you’re dying to go to Homecoming with him,” Gwen
remarked.
“Beg
pardon?” I queried. “Alright, if we’re going to descend to threats, then I’ll
rat you out for cheating on Mr. Rothenberg’s bio exam last week.”
“I’ll
tell everyone that you
did
sleep with Ian,” she quickly countered.
“At
least I won’t have to resort to slander, like when I let everyone know that you
made out with Parker at Lacey’s last party,” I said with a baleful whisper.
“Hey,
that wasn’t me! That was the Jack Daniels and three beers acting out,” Gwen
fired back.
“You
know Trish has the whole thing on video, don’t you?”
Gwen’s
eyes practically bulged from her head. “You’re kidding, right?”
I
shrugged my shoulders with amusement, knowing that I had secured the upper
hand.
“Okay,
before we end up being the trending topics on every local social media site,
not to mention my ass in detention for the rest of my life, I say we call a
truce,” said Gwen.
“Agreed.”
“Now
go grab your things,” she promptly said.
I
almost snorted with laughter. “Clearly, you need to brush up on your
vocabulary, because the definition of ‘truce’ doesn’t mean that I surrender to
you.”
“Trust
me, this is worth it. And don’t worry. Everything’s already been taken care of,
and time
really
is of the essence here.”
“Why?
Is Macy’s having a blowout sale for your dress or something?” I mocked.
“Nope,
we’re going to Arlington,” declared Gwen. “And we have to get there before the
end of their school day, so get a move on.”
My
hands instinctively hooked to my hips with exasperation. “And what business do
you have at Jack’s old school?”
“I’ll
explain on the way. We’re burning precious daylight here, sweetie. Trish
already agreed to cover for us by telling Mr. Randall that we’re both helping
her in the news office,” said Gwen. “Now, move!”
“I
can’t leave until the end of the hour without a hall pass,” I said.
“How
do you think I got in? The back door is cracked open.” She spun me around and
pushed me forward. I tossed my belongings around the computer station into my
book bag before logging off.
I
casually followed behind her as she crouched and hustled toward the back of the
library down a long aisle. “Why are you walking like that?”
“It’s
called being inconspicuous,” she whispered, still hunched.
“No,
it’s called being a dork. No one can see us from here, and the librarians
aren’t armed with Tommy Guns,” I said with a hushed chuckle. “You won’t be shot
trying to make a run for it.”
“I
thought you were afraid of getting caught.”
“I
am, but creeping around like you’re in the midst of breaking out of Alcatraz
isn’t helping. If anything, it looks more obvious. We’re still in the
Philosophy section. Normal people don’t skulk about when they’re looking for
Nietzsche or Plato.”
She
dispiritedly straightened up. “Do you always have to be so-”
“Logical?”
“Boring?”
she corrected. “Come on. Didn’t you ever play spy games when you were a kid?
Forgive me, but if I have the opportunity to feel the cheap excitement of a
low-grade Mission: Impossible knockoff escape plan, I’m taking it.”
“My
apologizes,” I laughed. “Direct the way, Tom Cruise.”
She
motioned me forward and we scampered quietly along until we reached the end of
the aisle. Gwen poked her head around the corner, checking to see if the coast
was clear, and then she turned to me with a series of hand gestures that looked
like she was trying out to be a catcher for a baseball team. She then motioned
to the door.
“What?”
I whispered.
She
started the sequence all over again before I interrupted.
“I
don’t know what the hell any of that means, not to mention that I’m standing
right beside you! Vocals, Gwen. They’re always of abundance, so don’t let them
fail you now,” I whispered.
“What
did I just say to you? Covert operation. Spies always use hand signals to convey
their route for escape, especially when silence is key,” said Gwen.
“There
is no route. It’s a ten foot pace to the door to our left,” I pointed out.
She
gave a snort of derision. “Just wait for me to give you the signal.”
“What’s
that look like? You gonna break out into the funky chicken for me?”
Her
elbow jabbed sharply into my arm as she returned her attention to the door.
After about twenty seconds, she waved her hand forward and made a beeline to
the exit. I followed after her a bit more lackadaisically than I should have,
but I reached the door just the same. No tactical assault teams rushed out at
us. No high security alarms whaled. Not even an underpaid rent-a-cop demanding
that we face the wall and interlock our fingers behind our heads.
“We’re
home free,” said Gwen, pushing on the handle.
To
her surprise, nothing happened. She tried the door again, only to realize that
it was locked.
“You’ve
got to be kidding me!” she said, looking down at the triangular wooden block by
her feet. “One of the faculty members must’ve noticed.”
“Well,
007, it was nice knowing you, but I’m gonna return to my report,” I said,
mockingly throwing my hands up in surrender.
“Oh,
come on, where’s your sense of adventure? This is nothing more than a minor
hiccup in the plan. Just watch,” Gwen assured. “Look, someone’s coming down the
hall. We’ll just get them to open the door for us. It’s unlocked from the
outside.”
She
pressed her face against the windowpane on the doorframe, and as footsteps
approached, she tapped the glass lightly to catch their attention. It was
Alicia, along with a couple of other girls I was still unfamiliar with.
“Can
you open the door?” Gwen mouthed, pointing down at the handle.
Alicia
smiled rather wickedly and tossed the hair off her shoulders, continuing her
saunter down the hall with her posse following behind her.
“That’s
the ugliest F-ing blouse I’ve ever seen!” Gwen hissed back as she passed by.
“Yeah,
that’ll entice her to help,” I commented.
“Please,
like she would’ve helped anyway. I figured it was at least worth a shot. The
girl comes from the same evil gene pool as Stacy. Lending a hand to others is a
foreign practice to them,” said Gwen. “Wait, someone else is coming. Yes! It’s
a guy.”
Sure
enough, Gwen put on her best flirtatious face, batting eyelashes and all, and
beckoned for him to help. It was Danny Owens, a fellow junior who shared P.E.
with us.
He
immediately chuckled in amusement once he saw Gwen. “You seriously think I’m
gonna set you free, Meyer? I don’t wanna be responsible for letting a lioness
like you out of her cage,” he teased.
“Just
open the door, or I’m gonna be using your head for target practice during
dodgeball next week,” she said, immediately dropping all playful behavior once
she realized he wasn’t going to help.
I
pushed Gwen away from the window. “Please, Owens. For me.”
“Foster?”
He looked rather stunned by my attempt at delinquency, so he reluctantly opened
the door and held it just enough to let us slide out.
“Thank
you,” I said.
“I
figure whatever it is that has you of all people bending the rules, it’s
probably worth it,” Danny replied.
Gwen
rolled her eyes. “Yeah, she’s a real angel. Whatever. Now, we really have to
go.”
She
yanked me by the sleeve and dragged me down the hall. We cut through the
weightlifting room, which was thankfully vacant, and took the back stairwell to
the side exit door leading out to the football field.
Gwen’s
phone started vibrating.
“WARNING:
KURTSPATRICK IS ON DUTY! SHE’S COUNTING CARS. -TRISH.”
“I
told you this was stupid,” I said. “Come on. Let’s just get back in there
before we get busted.”
“Where’s
your sense of adventure?”
“Gwen,
there comes a time to admit to failure. This is it,” I said.
Her
confidence deflated for a moment as she pondered her options, but a light bulb
suddenly went on in her head. “No, there’s still one final play in the book. We
don’t need my car. Your dad left you the Buick, right?”
“Yeah,
but that’s just so I have a car if I need it for when he’s working at the bar
later. Plus, I’m not hoofing it all the way to my house. It’s a ten minute trip
when driving. It’ll take forever on foot.”
“Unless
we get another car to take us to yours,” she said mischievously. “Follow.”
High
powered tools screeched and roared over the blaring radio inside the Woodshop
& Automotives Building, which was actually just a massive garage with paint
and varnish stained sheets hanging in the middle of the space to divide the
departments. I cautiously maneuvered around the stations, watching drills
effortlessly penetrate and band saws swiftly cut planks of wood with sparks
flying from every direction. Needless to say, in my state of fear and
sensitivity, being around death provoking machinery was at the bottom of my
list of things that I wanted to introduce into my day.
“What
are you girls doing here?” asked Mr. Peterson, the woodshop teacher.
“We’re
here to do a quick survey among randomly selected students for a newspaper
article, and we were wondering if we could speak to Joe Feldman?” replied Gwen
in the most professional manner.
“Yeah,
sure thing. He’s in the back, working under the Taurus,” Peterson said, tossing
each of us a pair of protective eyewear. “Just make sure you’re careful.”