Page 20 of Cuervo's Carnival
Lungs burning, we continue to follow her, and then, it dawns on me. Something Zeke warned us about shortly after theirabuelapassed. He said he was worried for Lola because of the history on their mother’s side of the family. The women fromabuela’sside were known to have a strange relationship with death. Supernatural, even. Grief itself, being near cemeteries or even places where bad things once occurred, could trigger it. Zeke often spoke about how relieved their father, Donato, was when their mother ran off, for he didn’t want her otherworldly ways to rub off on Lola.
My heart sinks because something tells me that Pax and I are about to see first-hand how death will taunt ourMorta.
9
Lola
The erratic beatof my heart violently thrashes to my eardrums, creating a menacing commotion within me. Determination dances alongside my strong will, fighting against the rationale trying to rise to the surface. Attempting to convince me that it’s all in my head, that there is no one there. However, I can feel it.
I can feel the presence of something beyond my comprehension lurking on the other side of these confined shadows we walk in.
Each purposeful knock is a call.
A cry for me.
And deep down, I know that I must answer, since whatever is out there is meant for me.
As I get closer to the end of the tunnel, the time-lapse between knocks vanishes. The steady beat of thunderous tapping intensifies as it soars an octave higher.
I hurry my steps, and it feels like I have been suspended in this dark chamber forever. Each step I take toward the end feels like it adds more time to my stride, making me restless.
Finally reaching the threshold of the tunnel, I waste no time. My legs move faster than my mind can process, spewing me out into the open, frigid air.
I exhale deeply, and all I see ahead of me is the outline of my gathered breath, forming a dissipating cloud. Suddenly, the warm summer air is gone, replaced with an ambient chill.
Focusing straight ahead, I see nothing but a decaying wood sign pointing toward “Amontillado’s Mortuary.” It looks like it was some sort of indoor ride before the carnival shut its doors.
Confusion rattles me.
I know someone was knocking; I fucking heard it.
I rest my flat palm on my forehead, which vibrates from my chattering teeth. I’m so fucking cold. I don’t understand why.
And then, I hear a sound.
Not a knock or a tap.
But a blaring, monstrous croak. The moment it meets the motionless air, it cuts through my spine as it creeps its way to my neck before burrowing itself at the shell of my ear. Taunting me further.
“Turn around, Lola,” the voice calls to me.
Again, I scan my peripheral to the Mortuary attraction ahead of me, but I see nothing. I hear the call again—"Turn around, Lola”—and this time, I feel a pull, yanking me backward and into the direction of where I just ran out of the tunnel.
Body tense, heart pounding, and mind racing as to what is calling me, I slowly rotate my body. I’m not even a quarter of the way turned when an inky hue begins to invade my vision. The more I turn toward the tunnel, the darker the image grows. Continuing its call in my ear, which feels like it is being split in half from the deafening shriek.
Feet planted on the ground, and with my torso now facing the opening of the tunnel, I notice the identical scene to the arched opening at the beginning. Just like the front, there is large, cut wood made to resemble an ocean swell. The paint is the same vibrant black, blue, and red hues. The same bronzed sculpture with the crested helmet lies ominously on the top of the arch. Except, on this side of the tunnel, there is one distinct difference.
A raven, with its dark as night feathers, rests on the small space between the bronzed helmet and the viscous ocean waves.
Slowly, I avert my gaze to its haunting, jet-black stare, and once more, it parts its bill to inevitably let out a shriek. I raise my hands to the sides of my ears, laying them flat against each to drown out the shrill cry that is about to be unleashed. I squeeze my eyes shut, anticipating its eerie sound, but nothing happens.
I open my eyes to a small slit peering up at the raven, who remains perched with me in its sight. Hands still acting as earmuffs, I gaze at its onyx plume, waiting for the inevitable.
A few more seconds pass, and nothing. Not a shriek, a cry, a tap, nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Which should have me feeling relieved, but weary apprehension lodges itself in my gut.
