“I don’t know.” Those are, in fact, the worst words you can say to your wife. Where is our child? Allison shouted to me so long ago, all night like a chorus, and I had to tell her that very phrase. I don’t know. The very worst words right after our child is missing.
We head over to the door, our steps in tune to one another as if this were a choreographed move, and I swing it open, brave, as if a new frontier awaited us. We are so hopeful. We have waited, planned for this, prayed for it, and sure enough, there stands a pint-sized brunette with her dark soulless eyes laughing at us with the sound of a thousand deceased spirits roaming inside her. It’s about damn time.
Ota looks up at us with that mocking grin, all of her murderous intent. “Can I play with Reagan today?”
Allison and I share a quiet glance. We have done our homework, our due diligence. Originally, we had surmised that the best way to contain the enemy is to keep her within arm’s length, but something far better had come our way and we would not only keep her at an arm’s length, we would have the upper hand.
“Come in, Ota.” I glare at the menace as she strides on by. Yes, my father had it right. The wages of sin is death, but the sinners who killed the Chachnoaw tribe died off long ago. Enough blood has been spilt, enough to cover their ancestors up to their eyeballs. But with fire, a cleansing can happen. Just like Dolla Chetney was full of bullshit, we have discovered through veracious research that the underpinnings of this curse were just the same. It turns out there is very much an off button, a fiery, flame-filled goodbye to this hell forever.
Only fire could one day save Reagan from the menace amongst us, the seemingly innocent being hell-bent on taking her life. Once set to flames, the spirits cannot escape.
“Where is Reagan?” Her tiny nose lifts to the air.
“Out back, honey.” Allison manufactures a smile as we play along with this very dangerous game.
Ota skips off, her ponytail whips back and forth, so free, such a mockery of innocence. But the kindling is ready. Allison and I had purchased an enormous outdoor fireplace and had it installed out back. The salesman said you could roast a deer in it. Ota is a bit smaller than your average deer. I’ve rigged it with iron bars, ten different pad locks ready to go. All hell is about to break loose, and I’m glad the girls aren’t home to see it. Ally—our oldest, is supervising the girls while they’re at gymnastics. Allison and I won’t need to be there until six to pick them up. I think once the fire is stoked there might be time for a glass of wine. Allison and I have rehearsed every move, trained for this as if it were the Super Bowl.
Ota reaches the kitchen door and takes a wary look out the window while I snatch the rope off the counter. She turns to look at us with those black soulless pools she sees the world through.
Allison sheds a satisfied smile. “Now.”