Until We Burn_A Psychological Thriller Read online

  Once the kitchen was spotless and shimmering with all his familiar appliances, he grabbed a box and took it into the bathroom. That one was unloaded, and then a second one for the bedroom. There wasn’t much in that box, just a few blankets, a lamp, and a gun that he put on the bedside table.

  “All I need in a home,” he grumbled. Cyrus shook his head and curled his fingers underneath the last box. There was paper rustling inside, so he opened the lid a fraction to peek.

  He smiled, feeling that sense of purpose well up inside. Mounting the stairs, carrying the box with him, reality dawned. The attic came closer and closer, his workshop. This was the best part of the place. Always had been.

  Downstairs on the television, an old VHS played, lots of noise that reached to all rooms of the house. The video was grainy, taken with a cheap, store-bought camera. It showed a beautiful, young lady, twirling around on the beach, dressed in white. Beside her was a small child, laughing and skipping along.

  They kicked up sand as they danced around, gazing at each other with love. And then they stopped dancing, took a deep breath, and fell. Their bodies hit the sand, and they were still.

  <><><><><><>

  There was a sharp knock on the door, and Cyrus trudged across the living room to answer. His dinner was on the table, going cold.

  “What do you want?” he snapped, opening the door with a jerk.

  There was a small girl, wearing a large ribbon in her straight, black hair. She lifted her eyes, puffing her cheeks and grinning. ”Hello. My name is Ruby.”

  Cyrus shook his head. “Get out of here. I know who you are.”

  Ruby lowered her eyebrows and glared at him. Her eyes were a dark and ferocious blue, like stormy skies. He knew his own color looked much the same.

  “I know what you did, Cyrus Streett.”

  “Leave me alone. What do you even want?” he asked, glancing outside at the street. There was nobody else in view. “I’m busy, so… go. Go home, or somewhere. Just not here. This isn’t your house.”

  “Are you afraid, Cyrus Streett? Afraid of what you can’t remember? Or can’t forget?” She clicked her tongue. “Sometimes, it’s better to do neither. To die. I know all about-”

  “You don’t know anything about me,” he said, voice wavering. “Please just get out.”

  “You have to be so rude to me, don’t you Cyrus Streett?” The little girl bowed her face even lower. “Don’t make the same mistake you did last time.”

  “I… I’m not here for… I just want to… Please-”

  “I like it better when you beg. Now stop stuttering. Turn around. Close door. Walk away.”

  Cyrus anxiously reached for the door edge and pushed it shut. He peered through the window and saw her turn. With short, rapid steps, she left his property just as quietly as she’d come. Turning left, she was gone. But not forever.

  “That’s not good…” He shook his head, trying not to think about what would happen soon. “That can’t be good at all.”

  Chapter 2

  Unwelcome

  Cyrus woke in a strange bed, his eyes locking onto the ceiling above his head. It was familiar, from nearly twenty years ago. So much had changed since then. How would they react to him being back? Did they remember? Would he?

  He still felt nervous, twenty minutes later, as he tied his shoes and stared at the front door. The reason he was here… It wasn’t pleasant. Coming back wasn’t an easy decision. He could’ve stayed away, and lived a semi-normal life. But Ophelia’s calling became too strong, and he had to do something. He had to avenge her.

  As he stepped outside into the pleasant morning, Cyrus shut the front door behind him, turning around to lock it. The house key hung beside many others on his chain, with nearly a dozen in all. Pocketing his wallet, he slipped on his dark pair of sunglasses and made his way to the car.

  He sat there for a moment, deciding whether or not to put the roof down. There was a middle-aged man across the street, staring at him from the front yard. Next to the father was a young boy, with a football. Their game had been interrupted for the sole purpose of watching him. Cyrus shook his head and hit the button, smiling as the roof collapsed noisily.

  Pulling out of the driveway, he sped down the road and through a couple of turns. There were only a few stoplights in town, all along Main Street. Every corner seemed to be a four-way stop sign, and he blew through them all, hardly slowing down. If the cops wanted to pull him over, fine. He’d get to know them eventually, anyways. Somebody would complain about him, about his noisy radio, about his slick car.

  “Only the pastor’s allowed to have a nice car, right?” he mumbled. Cyrus shook his head. Picking fights already was a terrible idea, but that was just fine.

  He pulled up to the only grocery store in town, a locally-owned brick building. Dumpy’s Grocery, the sign read. On the right of it was a similar place, only this sign read Dumpy’s Hardware. To the left of the grocery was yet another sign, yet another shop. Dumpy’s General Store.

  “Dumpy gets around, huh? Should’ve guessed.”

  Walking into the grocery store, Cyrus grabbed a cart and tried to ignore everybody’s eyes fixated on him. Not a single person was talking. Only the soft, country radio could be heard over the store speakers.

  His cart squealed as he pushed it up one aisle, searching the shelves. He grabbed a few items, basic necessities, and then a dozen cans of tuna and peanut butter. Still no noise in the store, but he tried to forget about all those people. They weren’t why he’d come.

  “You like that stuff too-na?” There was a chatter of laughter from beside him, and Cyrus turned in that direction.

  “What?”

  It was a woman. Her clothes were wrinkled, and somewhat worn down. Big, rimmed glasses stood on the bridge of her nose, with two tiny buns on her head that contained all her brown hair. Her smile was wide, uncomfortably so, and she took a step closer to him.

  “My name’s Ann,” she said, lightly touching his arm. He felt her squeeze just a little. “Ann Dee.”

  “Your name is Ann Dee? Like Andy?”

  She giggled and covered her mouth with a hand, clearly trying to act cute. “No, I’m just pulling your leg.” Ann brushed her hand against his leg. “My name’s Ann McBay. I’m the town-”

  “Librarian?”

  Her eyes got wide and she squealed. “You’ve heard of me?”

  “Your shirt says, ‘Nobody makes love like a librarian.’ Where did you even get that?” Cyrus wrinkled his nose. “It’s-”

  “Awesome, right?” She licked her lips. “I custom-made it online. Drove an hour to go pick it up. You like it?” Ann took another step closer to him, so that they were almost touching.

  “I just came to get tuna.”

  “Me too-na.” She chuckled. “You know, you have some of the most beautiful eyes.”

  “Thanks.” Cyrus took a step back, pushing his cart. “I… need to go get some more stuff.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll come with you.” Ann fell into stride beside him as Cyrus thought of a friendly way to get rid of her. He didn’t care about politeness, but didn’t want a grudge-match already. What if she was useful?

  “Ann, listen, I-”

  “Your eyes are just so mesmerizing,” she cooed. “I could stare into that love ocean all day. Cerulean, my word.”

  “Cer- what?”

  “It means a sky blue.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “A deep blue. If you get what I mean.”

  “I have no idea what you mean.” Cyrus folded his arms. “Listen, I really need to go, and I’m super busy today, so I’d appreciate if you can-”

  “Come over?”

  “Leave.”

  Ann’s eyes widened. “Oh. But I thought-”

  “No.”

  She bit her lip and stared at his chest for a moment, tapping her fingers on the short skirt hanging halfway to her knees. “You know I’ve had a crush on you since, like… grade school?”

  “I don’t… r
emember you from then?”

  Ann took a deep breath, composing herself. “You shouldn’t go around making enemies already, Cyrus. We all know about you. About why you’re here. It’s obvious. From what happened last time.”

  His heart stopped for a moment, but he kept a straight face. “I answered an ad for a house. Is that illegal?”

  “No.” She brought her eyes down slowly over his body. “But this town doesn’t like strangers, Cyrus. Never has, never will. That’s what you are now. You keep your business to yourself, we’ll leave you well alone.” She grinned and let her eyes climb up to his lips. “Well, most of us will. Can’t make any promises myself.”

  “Listen, Miss… Ann. Whatever this is, I’m not looking for it. Not now, not… ever.”

  “I know exactly what you’re looking for, Cyrus Streett. We all do. That church fire might have gone cold, but we all remember, and we know exactly what you want. You’re not gonna get it. We don’t want you here, and if there’s anything we can do to run you out of town… Well, we won’t hesitate. Keep that in mind. Things can get real nasty with a whole town against you.”

  “Like I said, I’m just here for a new start.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why would you think otherwise?”

  “We don’t want the past brought up. And anybody who tries to unbury it… might get buried themselves.” She leaned against his ear, whispering. “Consider this a friendly warning. Don’t go digging.”

  “That’s exactly what I intend to do,” Cyrus said. “Don’t get in my way, Ann.”

  She grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Detective. Can I call you that?”

  “No, you can’t. I’m not a detective, and I never will be.”

  Ann smiled with one side of her mouth. “Then what are you?”

  “A stranger. Leave it that way.”

  Cyrus pushed past her with his cart and marched to the front of the store, where everybody continued to stare. He ignored them and kept his eyes fixed on the cashier, who rung up his items slower than seemed necessary.

  “Why weren’t you at church this morning?” the man asked as Cyrus tried to walk away.

  “You honestly wanna know?” Cyrus demanded. “Because I was tired, so I slept. I don’t need a religious fix like all of you, because I don’t feel guilty.”

  The cashier grinned, showing rotten teeth. Everybody in the store stared at him, and they all smirked in the exact same manner.

  “I’m just trying to-”

  “There’s only one reason you would’ve come back,” the cashier grumbled. “Don’t think we’re fools. We know.”

  “Listen,” he started, feeling anger bubble up inside. “I-”

  “You aren’t welcome here, Cyrus,” one woman interrupted.

  “You can’t solve this one.”

  “There’s no evidence.”

  “The case is cold.”

  “We’re innocent.”

  “We are alone.”

  Cyrus shook his head and stared each of them down, one by one. “I know whoever burned that church down is here somewhere. You might be hiding them. I figured you would. But I’m gonna find them.”

  Next door, he picked up a butter knife and some binoculars. They would stay in his attic, along with the foods he’d bought and brought. The gun could have gone up there, but it would be handier by his bed.

  After throwing the bags into the back of his car, he drove around town, trying to get a feel of the place. A lot could change in almost two decades. He passed a bar, and stared longingly at the tinted windows and lights behind them. Those windows were the same color as the alcohol being served inside, the liquid he wanted so desperately but couldn’t touch.

  He drove by the church, saw the pastor’s car wasn’t there. He’d have to catch him a different time. There were some questions he needed to ask, and only that man could or would answer. For now, it was time to go home.

  On the way, nobody stared at him. There wasn’t a single person who made eye contact, not a single child on a bike or an old lady in the garden who watched him. It was the opposite, in fact. Almost like they were avoiding him. He was the stranger in their midsts. He was about to open Pandora’s box, snatch the skeletons out of the closet, any cliche imaginable. He was the storm. This was the calm.

  “Why are you doing this?” his mother had asked him shortly before she died in the hospital bed. That bed was her home for a long time. “There’s no money for you, no opportunity, no reason to go back there. She wouldn’t want you to. There’s not gonna be any closure from this!”

  “I’m not looking for closure,” Cyrus had said. “She deserves to know. She deserves to know who destroyed her.”

  “And what if you don’t like the answer?”

  Cyrus had grabbed her hand and stared into her eyes. “I’m going to find out, mom,” he assured her. “It hurts us all, but I’m going to make it better. I promise. This many years is too long. We need to know who’s fault it is. And they need to pay.”

  When Cyrus got back to his horrid home, with the grass shin-high and the weeds as tall as his waist, he unlocked the door, jamming his shoulder against it to dislodge the stuck edge. He burst into the living room and ran to the nearest shelf. There was a photograph of a woman and a child, the same one he’d studied the day before. Beside it, there was a beach scene, with rows of white chairs set up and a decorative platform in front of them. The sun was setting on the deserted landscape, so lifelike that he almost forgot it was a painting. In the bottom right corner, two initials were written: OS.

  Sinking onto the couch with low, heavy breaths, Cyrus grabbed both pictures. Holding one in each hand, his head swiveled back and forth, trying to remember that day on the beach, trying to forget about that same beach many years later. What a lovely scene, and then what a terrible one.

  He didn’t have any paintings of the second experience, but the images in his head were far worse. And they were real.

  Letting out a roar of anger, he jumped forward and brought both fists down on the carpet. Something splintered underneath, but he didn’t care. Cyrus fell to his knees and began to sob, soaking the floor with his tears.

  There was an unopened beer bottle on the coffee table. Had he put it there? He reached out a hand, the beads dripping down the sides, ice-cold to the touch. He wanted to grab it, open it, chug it, then another and another, but that was… bad.

  Bad. No, bad was betraying those who loved you. Bad was leaving your everything. Bad was lying, and stealing, and betrayal, betrayal. This wasn’t bad. This was worth it. This was what he deserved.

  If all those he loved had died, he couldn’t betray them, anyways.

  Cyrus reached out and grabbed the beer in his hand. He knew there were many more in the fridge. Staring down at the two pictures, he popped off the lid and brought the bottle to his lips.

  “This is for you.” He took a drink, and felt it burn his throat in that familiar way, tracing lines that it had scorched what felt like centuries ago. “It’s always for you. Everything’s for you.”

  He took another drink and fell to his knees on the carpet. Staring straight ahead, he saw the window, the darkness outside. Hadn’t it just been light a few minutes ago? And he imagined her there, watching him. There was an all-too-familiar expression on her face: Anger.

  “I’m not angry with you,” she would have said. “I’m just disappointed.”

  “Did I disappoint you?” he asked with his voice wavering, yelling at somebody lost forever. He took another drink to steady it. “Do I disappoint you, huh? Huh!”

  The beer bottle was gone in minutes, and he slammed it down on the coffee table. There were a few more, and a bottle of harder liquor. He hoped that was enough to knock him out.

  “My tolerance isn’t what it used to be,” he said, grunting. “This should be fun.”

  The door in his brain, holding back those thoughts and memories, began to shake, and the doorknob turned ever so slightly. He caught a glimpse of a fire, a scream, the ground rushing
to meet him, and he collapsed. Then alcohol filled his mind and he took another drink.

  Memories.

  Chapter 3

  Cyrus and the Church

  *Years Ago*

  Cyrus brushed the curly hair out of his eyes, feeling the straps of his overalls digging into his frail, bony shoulders. He flinched, wanting to reach for where his mother’s fingers were dangling, but shoved both hands into his pockets. She would have pushed him away, had he tried. There was no use.

  The church in front of them was small, buzzing with people like a hive. It was surrounded by a field of grass, where everybody parked. On days when it was muddy, they would simply fill up the road with their cars, instead. Nobody came through here, so they weren’t really blocking a path.

  “Keep your chin up,” his mother scolded him. “We need to make a good impression.”

  “On who, Mommy?”

  “The new pastor.” She fidgeted with the necklace of enormous pearls that hung around her neck and a smidge above her low-cut dress. He’d never seen it before. He didn’t like it. “It’s important that he thinks we’re-”

  “Rich?”

  She grabbed his shoulder, squeezing a little harder than was comfortable. “Well-born.”

  They entered the church quietly. Every other week, they had slunk into the back row. But this time, his mother puffed out her chest, took long strides, and seated herself neatly in the third row from the front, smoothing out her skirt.

  “Just close enough for them to see us, but not enough that we’re ugly.”

  Cyrus didn’t respond. He took a seat next to her, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

  “Answer me when I’m talking to you, Cyrus.”

  “You didn’t ask a question, Mommy.”

  She clasped a hand on his knee, too tight. “You think just because you’re ten years old, you can talk to me like that?”

  He raised his eyes slightly, answered with no emotion. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

  “Save it.”