Everhaven: Book One of the Reaper Trilogy Read online

  Everhaven: Book One of the Reaper Trilogy

  Elizabeth J. Rekab

  Published by Elizabeth J. Rekab, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Elizabeth J. Rekab

  All rights reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-0-578-72201-6

  Cover Art by Victoria Rushing

  Printed in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Everhaven: Book One of the Reaper Trilogy

  THE CALLING

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  BEFORE

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Want More Everhaven, Right Now?

  Letter from the Author

  Other Books by Elizabeth J. Rekab

  About The Author

  To my mother, who always has my back; to my wonderful friends, and my supportive family. I couldn't have done this without you.

  THE CALLING

  The Dead always ring three times.

  Those words bounce around inside my head like an echo in the forest. They chip away at my brain like a creek wearing at the soil. When I close my eyes, the phrase floats there, suspended behind my eyelids. My mind pokes it, prods it, turns it upside down, considers its implications.

  As I step out of the kitchen into the living room and look across to my front door, I don’t even realize my mouth is moving, whispering the words over and over again like a mantra.

  “The Dead always ring three times.”

  In Everhaven, the Dead don’t always stay still. Sometimes, they have unfinished business. In fact, they usually do. It could be a message for a husband, or a wife, or child; a need to find something that was lost or return something to where it belonged; or even just a desire to see the stars and walk the earth and just talk with someone once more. In those cases, not even advanced decomposition and a closed coffin lid will stop them. Every resident knows this, but we all go about our lives as though we don’t. It’s a gift from our Provider, after all. One of the more morbid ones, but still a gift. Nonetheless, the Dead generally stay out of sight and thus—somewhat—out of the mind of the usual townsfolk. Unless you’re the Rester.

  The Dead won’t follow you on the street, or track you down at school, or do their stiff-legged saunter into Henry’s Diner. But if you’re the Rester, they will come straight to your front porch at night. They won’t knock, or jiggle your doorknob, or throw stones at your window. No, they ring the doorbell three times for reasons I can’t pretend to comprehend. How can I decipher the behavior of the Dead when the town’s former Rester, Rodney Brown, didn’t even fully understand?

  His words are what churn through my mind tonight as I stare at the front door; more importantly, at the figure standing just outside on my porch—a distorted shadow, visible through the door’s frosted glass pane.

  My home suddenly feels ten degrees cooler. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck begin to prickle. Every follicle on my body zaps to attention, as though I’ve been rolling around in wool for hours and built a static charge to epic proportions, sending strange tingling sensations skittering up and down my spine.

  “The Dead always ring three times,” Rodney Brown had said.

  He’d spoken those words less than a month before his death. He wasn’t talking to me, wasn’t even sitting at the same table as me, but I heard it like he was speaking right into my ear. Like somehow it had been said with me in mind. I’d watched as he wiped a bead of sweat from his gray, caterpillar-sized eyebrows. The little droplet fell square into the steaming chowder he was hunched over, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Don’t know why, but it’s always three, one right after the other. Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong,” he continued between noisy slurps of sweat-infused soup. He made wide gestures with his free arm, as though acting out a campfire story. “And if you don’t answer, they won’t leave. Oh, no. They’ll stand on your porch, still as a lamp post until you open that door. It’s a gift—and praise our Provider for that—but them Ringers are stubborn.”

  My mother would’ve chastised me if she’d known I was eavesdropping. So, while she finished her black tea, I shoveled a spoonful of blueberry pie into my mouth and kept what I’d heard to myself. But not even my favorite dessert in honor of my fourteenth birthday could erase it from memory. The Rester’s gruff voice continued to fill my head long after he’d left Henry’s Diner.

  Until his death two days ago, Rodney Brown answered when the Dead came to his door for sixty long years. It was his duty to finish their business and get them back into their graves. Anyone in town can see the Dead, but only the Rester can hear their voice.

  Everhaven needs a new Rester now.

  “Not me,” I whisper to no one in particular as my gaze remains fixated on the blurred shadow outside my door. The implications of what this will mean for me, for my already-outcast status, and the duties I’ll have to perform... none of it seems desirable. Not one bit. “Please, not me.”

  My fingers loosen their hold on the large wooden spoon I’m clutching, which I’d been using to stir the spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove when the doorbell rang and made me forget all about dinner. The spoon slides from my hand and hits the plush, white living room carpet, staining it marinara-red. Somewhere in the back of my mind, my mother’s voice screams that I’m like some sort of barnyard animal and scolds me for making a mess. Right now, I can’t bring myself to care.

  Legs trembling, I step over the fallen spoon and creep across the rest of the living room toward the door. The shadow through the glass pane doesn’t move. I can make out a head and hunched shoulders, still as a statue.

  Still as a lamp post.

  My mouth opens to say something, to yell for whoever it is to go away. Anything. But my voice lodges in my throat like a chunk of barely chewed steak, and I’m unable to force even a strangled squeak from my vocal cords. I want to shout for my mother, but even if I could, I know she’s out trying to nudge her way into the town’s social committee and not due back for an hour. Which means I’m alone except for whatever stands on my porch. Stil
l, my stubborn feet continue to shuffle forward. I’m terrified to see what’s out there, but I want to know. I need to.

  My stomach tightens, feeling like an almond getting crushed in a nutcracker, because somehow, I already know the truth in my bones.

  As I reach the foyer, the shiny white tiles are an unexpected contrast to the cushy carpeting. The sudden, stiff coldness under my toes shocks me into a moment’s hesitation. Just a moment. Then I move again. I’m inches from the door now. Breath hitches in my chest and wheezes out through clenched teeth. My shaking fingers close around the brass doorknob, but my hand is so clammy that they keep slipping off. After several unsuccessful attempts, I finally turn the knob, hearing the soft click as the lock pops out of place.

  Just do it, I tell myself. Now.

  Without further hesitation, I yank the door wide open.

  A brick wall of stench greets me first. It’s so pungent that I slap my open palm over my mouth and nose, and bile stings the back of my throat. So overpowering that I momentarily forget about the Ringer standing on my front porch, muddying up the tan welcome mat.

  I almost don’t recognize him. His once-dark skin is paler, ashen. The face is somehow bloated yet sagging at the same time, eyes sunken and glazed over like cellophane wrap has been stretched over the brown irises. The whites of his eyes are peppered with broken lines of black veins. Silver hair caked with dirt and decay.

  Despite his appearance, I know who it is; I’d known the moment the doorbell rang the telltale three times. The bile climbs higher up my throat and suddenly I’m biting my lips together to hold it in. The Ringer’s dead eyes lock on mine as the swollen mouth begins to move. A raspy voice grates my ears as it speaks the words I’ve been dreading to hear.

  “I’m sorry, Abigail,” Rodney Brown says. “It’s you.”

  PART ONE - WAKE

  CHAPTER ONE

  20 Days to Return

  My name is Abigail Walters, and I am Everhaven’s one and only Rester. Rodney Brown’s corpse delivered the news of my calling a month after my fourteenth birthday. Three long years ago, now.

  My life hasn’t been the same since.

  It’s my job to get the Dead back where they belong with minimal incident. They can’t find their way back without me. Death has a way of fogging the mind like that, it seems. The Dead only walk at night, and only seem to know the path between the cemetery and my house. Like deranged homing pigeons, they come straight to my front porch, leaving their muddy footprints on the white-washed wood my mother always has to scrub clean.

  “Hello up there! I’m ready to sleep now!”

  The voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I look down into Jesse Douglass’ open grave. He’s peering up from his coffin, staring at me impatiently with arms crossed over his chest.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be,” he scoffs. “You can’t let your mind wander like that when you’re supposed to be performing my slumber ritual.”

  Some Ringers are awfully testy. This one in particular has been a nonstop barrel of fun since he came to my door. Even in life, Jesse Douglass wasn’t known around town for his pleasantness. He spent most of his later days perched in a rocking chair on his porch and yelling at children that ventured too close, “Get off my lawn, it don’t pretty itself!”

  The fetid stench of decay floats up to me from six feet down. It’s more than enough to make a normal person gag, but when you’ve been doing what I have for three solid years, you get used to it.

  Mr. Douglass’ silver eyebrows inch upward. “Well?”

  “I’m starting now. Lay back and relax, please.”

  “About time.” He lets his head fall back to the casket’s pillow and his eyelids slide closed.

  “May the Provider catch you with opens arms,” I begin, and Mr. Douglass draws an unnecessary yet satisfied-sounding breath. A lingering reflex from being alive, no doubt.

  Walking over to my bicycle that rests near the Ringer’s headstone, I grab the backpack and spade I’d brought. I rest both on the ground near the base of the stone, then kneel and unzip the bag, the noise sharp and biting in the otherwise silent graveyard. My hands emerge from inside the bag clutching a silver lighter, two tall white candles wrapped in wax paper, a small bottle of cleansing oil, a pocket-sized prayer book, and a flashlight.

  I unwrap the candles and place them at either side of the headstone, making sure I grind them into the grass so they don’t fall over. Carefully, I light them, and reach for the bottle of cleansing oil before standing and brushing off my knees. Pulling the cork from the bottle, I tip it over the grave and allow some of the liquid to dribble down onto Mr. Douglass’ forehead.

  The Ringer’s eyes fly open, and he huffs through his nostrils. “Excuse me, do you keep your oil in the gosh dang freezer, child?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Douglass.” I’m getting tired of apologizing. “You can close your casket now.” I wait for Mr. Douglass to reach up and grab the handle all Everhaven caskets are equipped with. He pulls the lid shut with a loud THUNK. Too loud. No doubt trying to make one last point as he slams his final door.

  Bending, I recork the oil bottle, set it aside, and grab the leather-bound prayer book and flashlight. The beam of the flashlight scans the worn, delicate pages. I have the prayer memorized, of course, but tradition dictates that I read directly from the book.

  Going through the motions, I clear my throat to recite the Provider’s prayer. Because this is the way it’s always been done, always will be done. Still, the words seem empty to me, which makes me at odds with just about everyone else in this town. Sometimes, I envy them and find myself wishing I shared their faith, which would make life easier. Simpler. At least the devout feel something, whereas all I feel is hollow. Ever since five words changed my life, there’s been a void within me that keeps on growing. Feeding on itself and festering, its infection spreading more nothingness within me. Those words weren’t, “I’m sorry, Abigail. It’s you.”

  The words that changed me the most were, “I’m sorry, Abigail. He’s gone.”

  Still the worst words I’ve ever heard in my life.

  Once again lost in the past, my voice shakes with emotion as the Provider’s prayer leaves my lips just above a whisper.

  “From darkness comes light,

  Hope incarnate.

  Once every hundred and fifty years, He will return.

  He will gather the souls of the dearly departed and guide them to paradise.

  He will bestow great kindness upon those who believe,

  For his glory knows no bounds.”

  I finish reciting the prayer and shut the book, which also contains a brief history of Everhaven. I know that, too, by heart. It explains how, nearly 150 years ago, our town founders signed a contract with the Provider, promising our unwavering devotion in exchange for good fortune. That every 150 years, He will return to collect the souls of Everhaven’s Dead and take them to His home in Paradise.

  The details of the contract have always been hazy to me. Though it boils down to this: the souls of all those born in Everhaven are entrusted to Him, and because of this, no resident can ever leave town. We are physically unable to move past its borders, just as our souls are unable to leave our bodies until He comes for them. It’s the reason a Rester is needed here. Why Ringers walk the earth.

  I may not be an expert on the outside world, but I’m pretty sure this makes our town unique. At any rate, if there are corpses wandering around in other towns, my father would’ve told me. He knew so much more about the outside than anyone else in town and he was always keen to share it with me.

  There I go, obsessing over the past again. Once again wistful, I draw a deep breath, attempting to clear my mind like I always do when performing the rituals. Then I speak to the closed casket beneath me one more time.

  “Rest well, Mr. Douglass, until the Provider returns for you.”

  With my final line recited, I reach for my spade, scoop up some dirt, and pour it on top of
the coffin. Then I do it twice more. Always three scoops of dirt.

  This town loves the number three.

  Once finished, I drop the spade and fish inside my backpack for the finishing touch; a traditional Everhaven wreath made of white roses and sage. I leave it beside the grave to indicate to the Gravedigger—a quiet, stoic man named Louis Locke—that the body is back in its coffin and ready for final reburial.

  My work is done for the night.

  I shine the flashlight onto my wristwatch.

  It’s ten fifteen.

  Exactly twenty days, one hour, and forty-five minutes until the Provider returns.

  Quickly, I blow out the ceremonial candles, wrap them back up in the wax paper, and place them along with the rest of my Rester toolkit items inside the backpack before zipping it shut and sliding the straps around my shoulders. Then, I walk my bicycle over toward the place in the cemetery I’m most familiar with.

  The grave I’m seeking is toward the middle; another gray marble slab etched with heartbreaking words. My hands drift toward them and I kneel down in the grass, soft blades cool against my shins while my fingers trace the familiar letters. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve visited this grave, but I have to do it before I leave the cemetery as part of my own personal ritual.

  ALEXANDER WALTERS

  BELOVED FATHER AND HUSBAND

  “Hey, Dad,” I whisper, the pain still raw even five years later.

  Another pang catches me off guard, and a sigh hitches in my throat. I miss him. I miss the way we were together. Until the freak accident happened when I was just twelve-years-old.

  My father’s job was to keep the town’s electricity functioning. One night during a routine check, one of the generators caught fire, and my father was trapped. By the time the flames died down, the town was left in darkness for a week. All that remained of my father was a few charred bones and teeth, everything that he was reduced to nothing more than a pile of ash. The remains were buried; with his soul, I’m told. In such a rare and extreme case, the body can’t wake back up. A funeral is given and the casket stays closed, where the spirit lingers in a state of stasis. Until His return.