Until We Burn_A Psychological Thriller Read online

  The organ started to play up front, and a man stepped up to the front of the church, saying a few words before leading the church in song.

  He heard his mother whisper beside him, “I’ll correct your attitude when we get home.”

  The service passed quickly. She would mumble rude comments about some of the men and women at the front, point out characteristics of the pastor that she enjoyed. Cyrus remained quiet through all of it.

  On the way out, he saw a girl about his own age, resting against the door post and wearing a bright, flowery dress that swirled down to an inch below her knees. His mother was preoccupied, and so he drifted away, through the crowd. A fountain of fear swelled up in his heart, but he focused on the girl not far away, willing himself to press through the fog surrounding him and reach her.

  “Hi…”

  He stuck out his hand, like the adults did, but she didn’t shake it. Clasping her hands behind, she grinned and raised up onto her toes, then back down, nervously.

  “How… Um, what’s your name?”

  “Ophelia.” She smirked. “And yours?”

  “Cy- Cyrus.”

  “I like the name Cyrus.”

  He felt a hand pull him away, his mother, and soon he was being pushed through the crowd, back towards their car. Where he’d left, near the doorway, he saw a different boy move towards Ophelia. He was bigger, stronger, and his face was less weird. She laughed some with him, but he could tell… her heart wasn’t in it.

  Not like with him.

  “Mommy, I wanna find out where that girl lives. I wanna be her friend.”

  She yelled at him the whole way home, reached across the car to slap him, and when they got home he was corrected, but he still remembered that flowery dress, and that flowery feeling, something blossoming.

  “It’s not right,” his mother chastised him. “It’s not right.”

  <><><>II><<>

  *Present Day*

  “Just… stay safe, alright?” Will’s mother was at the kitchen table, holding her cup of coffee and eyeing him nervously.

  “I will, Mom.” Will shrugged on his jacket, then took it off. It was warm enough today to go without.

  “You listen to your mother,” his dad warned, leaning against the counter. Both of them were watching him, basically shaking with anxiety. “She’s right, you know?”

  “I’ve gone and worked before at people’s houses,” Will said defiantly. “I don’t get what you’re so worried about?”

  “You weren’t alive when it happened,” his mom whispered, shivering. “That Cyrus man… He isn’t safe.”

  “What if he’s just here in town trying to get a fresh start on life?” Will suggested. “You said he used to live here, right?”

  His dad made a low sound, holding up a palm. “Quiet. We don’t need to talk about it.”

  “Alright, okay, got it.” Will turned to leave, reaching for the door handle.

  “Put your jacket on,” his mom snapped. “It’s cold outside.”

  Will rolled his eyes, thrusting his arms back into the sleeves. “I’ll be back sometime around 2 or 3 this afternoon. You guys gonna be here or do I need my key?”

  “We’ll be here. No worry.” His dad took a deep breath. “Just remember. If you need anything, call us, and we’ll be there ASAP.”

  “I’m gonna be fine!” he exclaimed. “Alright?”

  “Of course, sweetie.” His mom smiled, sipping her drink. “Head on out, now. You don’t want to be late.”

  “Sure,” he mumbled, heading out the door. “Love you.”

  “We love you, too,” they said in unison. As he closed the door, he heard them shout, “Be safe!”

  “Who is this Cyrus guy?” Will asked out loud, starting to feel nervous. Somebody who could get his parents that worked up? What happened last time he was here?

  Chapter 4

  A Garden, A Boy

  The doorbell was a harsh sound in the morning, as light spilled in through the windows and onto Cyrus's face. He stirred on the couch, opening one crusty eye. Softly, he raised a hand to try and block the sunshine, but toppled forwards and onto the floor.

  “Hello?” said a voice from his front door. “Mr. Streett?”

  Cyrus struggled to get to his knees and placed both elbows on the couch to steady himself. “Come in,” he yelled, wincing as it penetrated his ears.

  With a grating sound, the front door pushed inwards and a teenage boy awkwardly stepped inside. He crossed his arms defensively, hunched over, a loose jacket hanging from them. “My… my name is Will. The pastor told me-”

  “Ah.” Cyrus nodded, feeling his body start to sway again. He held up a finger and gagged, trying not to throw up all over the carpet. “Will?” He choked, holding up a hand to his throat.

  “Yes, sir.” The teenager straightened as if for inspection, dropping his hands. “That’s me.” He stared at Cyrus warily.

  Cyrus raised an eyebrow, looking him over. Will’s hair was almost black and cut short, probably so his curls wouldn’t show. But even with his cargo shorts and button-up shirt, he was clearly something of a farm boy. From the way he held himself to the expressions he used, Cyrus guessed he wasn’t a very sociable teenager.

  “You live on a” -Cyrus gagged again, holding up a hand- “a farm or something?”

  Will shook his head. “Don’t live on one. My grandpa has one, and then I worked on one a few summers ago. Mostly I do some things around the house for my mom, or odd jobs for folks whenever they need it.”

  “You seem…” Cyrus made a face like he was about to sneeze, but closed his eyes instead. “Farmy?”

  “I don’t know.” Will shifted his weight, glancing around the home. A few shelves lined every wall of the living room, with mostly paintings and a few photographs staring back at him. In the center of the room, a large television sat black and dusty. There were dead flies smashed into the carpet, cobwebs in the corners, and an abandoned wasp’s nest in one windowsill.

  He took a few steps into the house, away from the open door. “So what work did you want done here? The pastor-”

  Cyrus waved a hand. “Shhh. No. Um… Job. Right.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  Standing up with legs like jelly, Cyrus leaned on the couch for support and pointed to the small coffee table. There were more than a few bottles on it, all a dark color and with a familiar brand name on the side. “Rough night, you could say.”

  “You drank twelve beers?”

  Cyrus's eyes rolled back in his head. He slapped himself, and they returned to normal. “I… didn’t drink twelve beers.” He grinned. “Some from last week. But… didn’t sleep much. Drank much.”

  “So are you drunk still, or hungover?”

  Cyrus plopped down on the couch and threw his arms up. “I am both!” he yelled, then laughed with a wild tone.

  “Should I come back… later?”

  Springing up from the couch, Cyrus jumped across the room in two, huge steps and stared Will in the eyes. “No! Stay here and work. I’ll show you… work. Yes. Come on.”

  He stumbled out of the living room, through the front door. Will followed hesitantly, keeping his distance.

  Cyrus pointed out the doorway, still open. “Grass needs to be snip… snap… snipped. And the… the weeders need chopped.” He held up his hands and cut his longest two fingers like scissors. “And the walls are… no. The walls is… no. Paint on walls. Yes! In and out, yes.”

  “Where’s your lawn mower and weed eater?” Will asked. He seemed more comfortable now, with a job to do. Standing up straighter, not quite as fazed by the mad man he was working for, his eyes sparkled with determination.

  “Um.” Cyrus shrugged. “Somewhere.”

  Will nodded. “Alright. I’m gonna go home and change into some work clothes, then I’ll-”

  “No!” he yelled. “You work now or you work never. Okay? Go and work. Grass the mow! Grass the mow!”

  “But I-”

&
nbsp; “Grass the mow!”

  Will held up his hands in defense. “Okay, okay! I will.”

  Cyrus nodded, his eyes rolled back, and he fell onto the floor with a thud.

  “Idiot,” Will scoffed, before disappearing outside to try and find the garage door.

  The sound of the lawn mower filled the neighborhood for a solid hour, as Will worked without rest and the sun rose almost to its peak. It was barely April, yet every day seemed more like July. After mowing the front, the sides, and the back, he was glad to put the machine back in the garage where he found it. An old, heavy-looking weed eater sat beside it, and he aimed a kick at it when passing by.

  Instead of getting right to that job, he went back to the front door and peered inside. As he stepped in, he found that all the lights were off and the curtains drawn. With one foot in the door, he glanced back on the sunshine and pressed inwards.

  Shutting the door softly behind him, Will made his way through the living room. Cyrus wasn’t on the floor anymore, nor was he on the couch. The beer bottles were gone, too, and there were no sounds from inside the home.

  “Must’ve gone to bed,” he mused. “Drunken idiot.” He thought back on his parent’s word. “Not dangerous, at least.”

  Will made his way into the kitchen, hoping that grass wasn’t falling all over the place as he did. There were a few cabinets, and he began to open each one in search of a glass. First one was full of knives, spoons, and forks, although he’d never seen them stacked in a cabinet before. Second was full of bread and one watermelon. Finally, on the third try, he found cups.

  He grabbed one gingerly and turned around to head for the sink. Will let out a shriek and dropped the glass, which shattered all over the floor.

  “Why are you in my house?”

  Cyrus was standing there, in the darkened doorway, holding a gun very calmly in his two hands. It was exactly like something from a cop show, with the small pistol similar to what you’d find on television. The man behind it was even more threatening, his hard-nosed look and solid arms showing no sign of backing off.

  “I’m Will! You hired me to mow your yard and-”

  “I just woke up,” Cyrus growled. “I can’t have hired you.”

  “You were asleep on the couch, and I came in-”

  “Stop! Lying!” Cyrus took a step forward, tightening his finger on the trigger. “Wanna tell me what’s really going on? What you’re trying to steal?”

  “I’m not stealing anything, I swear! I’m just here to do a job and-”

  “Why are you covered in grass?”

  “I was mowing!” Will pleaded. “I just came inside to get a drink of water.”

  “And you say I hired you earlier today?”

  Will nodded desperately. “You really did. You can look outside for yourself. I mowed your yard, and I was about to weed eat. You also said that I needed to paint the inside of this house. And outside.”

  “The pastor sent you?” Cyrus lowered the gun and switched on the safety. “Sorry. I remembered hiring you, but thought it was a dream.”

  Will started to breathe normal again. “Yes. Pastor Keener. I swear, he sent me.”

  Cyrus nodded and chewed on the inside of his cheek. There was a moment of silence between them. Will didn’t move a muscle, and didn’t dare reach for another glass.

  “How much did I say I was going to pay you?”

  “You… you didn’t say.” Will gulped. “We never talked about it.”

  Cyrus stared off into space, furrowing his eyebrows. “Ten bucks an hour good? Cash. Do what I tell you, don’t ask questions. If you finish every project I give you this spring, I’ll leave you an extra lump sum at the end.”

  “That’s more than enough. Thank you...” he replied hesitantly.

  “You’ll be mowing the house and weed eating it every Monday. Tuesdays, you’ll paint the inside of the house. Wednesdays, you’ll go back over everything you painted with a second coat. Thursdays and Fridays, if the weather permits, you’ll paint the outside. If it rains one of those days, you’ll come Saturday. If it rains both days, you’ll come Saturday and Sunday.”

  “What about church?”

  Cyrus narrowed his eyes. “Come after church. Your loss.”

  He turned to walk away, but Will called out, “Wait! I have something to say.”

  With a grin tugging at his mouth, Cyrus turned back around. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Streett, I… I don’t think you should be drinking anymore. It’s not gonna end well for you.”

  “Drinking again, was I?” Cyrus nodded slowly. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Will let out a sigh of relief. “I thought you’d get mad and threaten to shoot me again.”

  With a deep chuckle, Cyrus picked up the gun and twirled it on his finger. “This thing doesn’t work, anyways. I just keep it around to scare people.” He winked.

  “I have a question, too, Mr. Streett.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you want me to paint the upstairs? I saw some stairs, and they look like they might need a coat of-”

  “No.” Cyrus folded his arms. “You will not paint the upstairs. That’s my personal study, and I will be up there working most of the time. If you need me, there’s a bell by the stairs that you can ring. I’ll hear it. Under no circumstances do you go up the stairs. Period.”

  Will nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “Clean up this glass and then go weed eat.” Cyrus stared down at the glimmering shards on the floor. “After you’re done, ring the bell. I have another job I wanna show you.”

  Will spent the next hour tidying up the kitchen, and getting a drink of water from a new glass. He then carefully washed out the cup he’d used and put it back in the cabinet. After he was certain that every single piece of glass had been thrown away, he grabbed the weed eater and began work on the exterior of the house.

  It took him two hours to cut down the weeds, which had grown up to his waist, but by the time he was finished the home seemed about ten times nicer. With the grass low and the weeds in tattered remains, he brushed off his pants, folded his arms; a job well-done.

  Five minutes later, he was leaning on the stairway, staring at the bell. It was tiny and red, with vivid, blue fireworks painted on it. Whatever the origin, it clearly wasn’t store-bought. Something like this came from a pottery class, or a painting excursion. Maybe a small, mom-and-pop shop where you could decorate your own. On the front were three small letters, CAS, and on the back OHS.

  “Admiring her bell?”

  Will’s eyes shot up and found Cyrus staring at him from halfway down the steps. “I was just…”

  “I don’t mind.” Cyrus took a step down, and then another, inching his way down. “She was a great artist. I always admired her work, and all the little arts-and-crafts classes she’d do. Sometimes for me, sometimes for others. You know how it was.”

  “Was she your girlfriend?”

  Cyrus shook his head, smiling. “No. She was my wife. Her name was Ophelia.”

  “I’m… not really sure what to say. Honestly.”

  Staring off into the space above Will’s head, Cyrus was motionless on the stairs. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, out the window. His gaze was haunted, but longing, and his hand flinched at his side.

  “The backyard you mowed. I want you to dig a garden, 10 feet by 5. There’s a hoe, a shovel, anything you want out in that garage. After that, you’re done for the day.”

  “Why do you need a garden?”

  “Strawberries.” Cyrus held out his hand for the bell. “I’ve always wanted to plant strawberries.”

  Will gingerly set the bell down in his hand and backed away. “I’ll… get to work on that, then.”

  Cyrus nodded, his eyes in the same spot, through the same window. “Right. To work.”

  “Mr. Streett?”

  There was no answer, no movement.

  “Did you guys ever have any kids? I saw a picture in the living room,
of a woman and a child, and I thought-”

  “To work.”

  Will bit his tongue and turned away. “Right. To work.”

  Cyrus stared as he left the house. The kid could be useful. More than that. He could be important.

  Chapter 5

  Reminiscence

  Cyrus stood at the edge of the forest, staring at the field ahead. It was pouring down rain, soaking his suit and tie, his nice dress shoes covered in mud. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, as he stood like a board, the weight on his mind pressing heavier with every passing moment.

  Ahead of him, the church ruins sat, enduring the downpour. It looked about the same as last time. When he’d left town, driving along this forgotten highway with his wife sleeping in the passenger’s seat, he snuck a glance. Now, at the same site, different emotions were running through his veins. No longer was he depressed, anxious, scared of the future. Instead, there he felt angering surging, and passion.

  “I’m starting to remember…” he whispered, his voice nearly drowned out by the storm.

  Thunder rumbled the ground, and lightning flashed above them in the trees. Beside him, hunched over in the mud and stirring it with a stick, sat a little girl with a large bow on her head.

  “Scary, isn’t it?” She chuckled. “I told you.”

  “I don’t understand. Am I…?”

  “Don’t ask what you don’t want to know,” Ruby responded. Her voice shifted from its cynical, creepy tone to a more sympathetic one. “We all do things we regret, Cyrus. You have to know… It wasn’t entirely your fault. And Mommy… well, I know you didn’t kill her. But that doesn’t mean you’re innocent.”

  “I don’t want to remember,” he cried, tears starting to pour down his face, indistinguishable from rain as they bounced off his skin and into his clothes.

  “You don’t have a choice,” she whispered. “If you don’t remember, more people are going to die.”

  “What do you mean?” Cyrus turned to face her, his eyes wide. A thought popped in his head. A terrible idea.

  “You aren’t the only one,” she said. “Don’t worry. You’ll see soon enough. But once you remember, you’ll have to make a choice.”