- STEVEN -

"Steven...I really don't know about this," Dylan said for the seventh time in the past half-hour.

"Bro, will you just chill already? You're freaking out way too much."

"Well, that might have something to do with the fact that what we're about to do is punishable by law!"

"Dude, relax—it's gonna be fine."

I heard him gulp as we pulled up to our destination, a semi-vintage one-story house lined with pink bricks and golden lights hanging from the rooftop. The lawn was manicured evenly, not even a single weed sprouting between the summery green blades of grass. A quaintly rounded patio adjoined what I assumed to be the house's front door, and a wreath of plants with blue flowering petals hung at the door's glassed center.

"Gotta hand it to her," I said aloud, "Charity keeps her place nice."

Dylan was shaking now.

"Dylan, for the love of everything that's pure, can you please stop quaking in your boots? It'll be a quick in and a quick out."

"But why? Why do we have to break into her house? It's a Saturday! Can't we just go to my house and play X-Box or something? I got three new games last week that're sitting on my bookshelf waiting to be—"

"Dude, I already told you. You saw what Grace did to me at lunch on Thursday. Charity was the only one who knew I was on FilmSire, and she's the only one who could've told Grace about it." I stopped, almost tearing up at the memory.

"But, Steven, you don't know that it was her. I mean, maybe someone saw you on FilmSire after school or something—"

"Dylan, just stop, okay? Charity's an old witch, and she's got everybody at the church fooled—everybody but me." I paused, scowling. "I wouldn't be surprised if we found chicken's blood and a freaking shrine to Satan in that house."

Dylan shook his head. "Steven, I really think you're making a mistake here..."

"Come on, man. Ten minutes. That's all I need to find something in there that'll prove she's a kook. Then I can take it to my dad, and he'll kick her out of EdgeWay like the dirty skank she is." I parked my car two driveways down at a house with a For Sale sign sticking up in the front yard.

I clicked off the ignition and then stepped out of my car, Dylan following. I yanked a pair of keys out of my pocket—one for the backyard gate, and one for Charity's house itself.

"I still can't believe your dad had a key to this place in his office," Dylan mused. "And didn't you say the last owners of this house were the ones who gave him those keys? Don't you think Charity would've changed the locks since then?"

I chuckled as Dylan and I walked up to the gate. "Only one way to find out."

The first key slid into the gate lock with ease; I twisted it left and pressed open the metal bars.

"See?" I narrowed my eyes, grinning with triumph. "Dylan, you worry too much."

Dylan and I stalked up to the back door, and I shoved the key in the lock quickly, not wanting to spend any more time than necessary standing outside. Who knew if neighbors were watching?

The first thing I noticed once inside was how bright it was. There were so many white lights, large and medium sized, hanging from the ceiling and fastened to the walls.

The path directly in front of us led to the kitchen and living room, which were separated by a sliding door and a set of fancy wooden tables where I imagined she seated guests—if she ever had any. In the center of each of the tables were bouquets of more sky-blue flowers like the ones on the wreath outside; they sat snugly inside glossy glass vases filled medially with water.

The door to the living room slid open easily, and Dylan and I stepped through. On the back wall, where I assumed any normal person would have placed a TV, the words Love is Patient, Love is Kind were calligraphed in silvery-black lettering.

"She's so full of it," I mused to Dylan when I noticed the calligraphy.

The coffee table in the living room was a deep, dark brown, and piles of Christian books and magazines were stacked neatly on top of it. I reached down and began shuffling through them, tossing aside one magazine after another in search of any less-than-reputable literature she might be hiding.

I glanced up at Dylan. "You could help, you know."

He sighed, then stooped down beside me and began going through a pile I hadn't touched yet. "I don't even know what we're trying to find..."

"Just keep looking," I prodded him. "You'll know naughty when you see it."

Perusing the remaining piles stacked on the coffee table yielded nothing of value. I huffed out an impatient sigh as I glanced around the room, then slid open the table's top drawer.

A smile spread across my face the moment I saw what was inside. "Bingo."

"Huh?" Dylan asked, turning to me. "Steven, what'd you find?"

From the drawer, I lifted up a spirally bound women's journal. On the front cover was an image of a blue-and-yellow parrot with its head cocked downward, examining the field of multicolored flowers beneath the tree branch whereupon it sat. The notebook was fastened shut with a tiny copper-plated latch.

"Crap," I mused, prying at the journal, "it's locked."

"Okay, Steven," Dylan began, "I really think we should—"

"Unless..." I ignored Dylan. "Maybe she keeps the key somewhere around here." I reached back in the top drawer and started brushing back the other stuff inside. Running my hand over some of the old slips of paper and tiny-print evangelism booklets scattered inside, I felt my finger bump across something.

I pulled out the pages where my hand had been, and there it was—a miniature key with the same copper finish as the clasp on the notebook.

I wasted no time twisting the key inside the lock and flipping open the journal. After leafing to the first page, dated August seventeenth of 1984, I began to read aloud:

"Oh, everything's happening so fast," I spoke in a mocking and frilly voice. "I can hardly begin to write it all down. I'm happy, though. I've already managed to make friends with my roommate. Her name is Prudence Clearden, and she's the only other African American in my class. She's invited me over for dinner at her brother's house tomorrow evening, and she says he's quite the chef."

I looked up from reading, my eyes meeting Dylan's. "Wow, she's such a pansy," I said.

Dylan crossed his arms. "Can we go now?"

"Dude, chill," I ordered as I turned the pages of the journal. "There's something in here. I know there is. There's gotta be." I kept flipping, passing over seven more entries for August. I thumbed past an old photograph of two women smiling together, hugging each other outside of a restaurant.

That's definitely Charity, I thought. Guess the other lady must be Prudence.

I was about to turn to the entries from September when I heard something—a sharp and nearby creak.

Dylan gasped. "Steven, did you hear that?"

"Shh!" I whispered as the prattle of high-heeled shoes clacked through the air from the next room.

Dylan was shaking.

"She's back," I said under my breath.

"What do we do?"

I glanced around the living room and spotted, standing tall in the back left corner, a dark brown wooden wardrobe.

"There," I whispered. "Dylan, hurry!"

He tiptoed frantically to the wardrobe, and I followed after closing the journal and stuffing it back in the coffee table drawer. I swung the door to the wardrobe closed, leaving a tiny crack to see through and silently praying that the wood wouldn't squeak.

Charity entered only moments later, a gentle smile shining on her face as she strode into the room on a pair of pointed heels. The bright-blue purse she wore was hanging from her shoulder and swung as she walked.

She stepped toward the coffee table and gasped. "Oh, my." She began restacking the disheveled books and magazines as I silently berated myself for leaving the mess.

I could feel Dylan's exasperated breaths puffing next to me inside the wardrobe as—

DING, DING, DING, DING, DING!

I had to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from gasping aloud at the sudden ringing of Charity's house phone. As she scurried from the room to see who was calling, I heard Dylan grunt fearfully.

"Dylan, buddy, it's gonna be okay," I tried to reassure him.

As soon as I'd said the words, I zipped my lips at the sound of Charity's heels clicking into the air again. She returned to the living room and took a seat on the sofa, mere feet from the coffee table.

"Yes," Charity answered whoever was on the other end of the line, "I just arrived home."

The person spoke, but I couldn't make out a single word being said.

"Of course," Charity replied, somewhat shocked. "I'll be at the church right away, Landon. I can help when I get there."

Why's Landon need her help on a Saturday?

Charity hung up the phone and stood up from the couch, turning to the right and heading for the front door. Through the door's glass, I saw her reach inside her purse for her keys and lock the house behind her.

Dylan's haggardly breathing started up again the moment Charity's figure disappeared from in front of the door. I honestly thought the guy might pass out.

"Steven, please, can we get out of here!?"

I pushed the wardrobe door open and climbed out. "Yeah, Dylan. Yeah, we can." I rushed over to the coffee table and ripped open the top drawer. "But not without this:" I lifted the journal and accompanying key.

"What? No! This is insane. Put her diary back, and let's move it." Dylan caught my arm.

"Dylan, what's the matter with you!? Let go o' me!"

He was firm. "I mean it, Steven. Drop the journal."

"Dylan, back off!"

"Steven—"

CLICK!—the turning of a lock sounded from two rooms over.

What the heck? Charity just left to meet Landon...

"What was that?" Dylan released my arm from his grip, and terror filled his eyes. "Steven, what was that?"

My head darted from left to right in a panic. "I—I don't know." I turned to the wardrobe. "Come on, Dylan. Back inside."

The two of us barreled forward, shutting ourselves within the wardrobe's heavy darkness in an instant.

CLICK—again?

Is that crazy witch locking us in this house?

The plodding of footsteps echoed through the air. But they weren't Charity's feet. The springy snaps of her high heels had been replaced by the thudding of hard-bottom soles.

Huh?

From inside the wardrobe, I could make out the faintest of buzzing, the rhythmic ringing of a smartphone—no way was that Charity.

"Hello?"

The moment the man answered the phone, a surge of ice bolted through my veins.

"No way," I breathed, my eyes drawn wide. "That's Landon."

"Steven, what the heck!?" Dylan screeched out the raspy words.

"Shh!" I barked in a whisper. "Dylan, keep it down!"

Landon's heavy shoes clunked into the living room, stepping just inches in front of the wardrobe. "I'm inside," he spoke lowly into his phone. "And Charity's headed for the church."

My breath catching in my throat, I felt fear grip every inch of my body. Dylan and I stood motionless, terrified, behind the dark double doors of polished wood shielding us in the wardrobe's interior.

"No," Landon answered a question I couldn't hear. "I told her we could use her help and that it was a very important matter. Now, it's up to you to figure out the rest, Marcus."

Blood rushed to my head. Dad!?

Landon walked over to the coffee table while my father's frantic voice trickled through the phone. As he rested his hand on a stack of thick books, Landon rolled his eyes.

"Well, keep her busy when she gets there, Marcus," he finally said. "I'm a treasurer, not a miracle-worker." He pulled a long black key from his jacket pocket and knelt beside the coffee table.

More of my dad's words came from the other end, and Landon sighed.

"I agree, Marcus. Charity's request to join the church was suspicious. But you and I both know we had to accept her. If we hadn't, who knows what she'd run and tell?"

Landon twisted his head, glancing from left to right, then slid his black key into a slender hole on the side of the coffee table's frontmost leg.

What the—

A dark, six-sided box fell from underneath the bottom of the table.

"S...Steven...did you see that?" Dylan's desperate whisper barely reached my ears.

"There's no way," I breathed. "How did he—?"

"The basket's still here," Landon said as he flipped open the box top.

What the heck are they—?

Landon gasped. "No...no, no, no, this can't be..." He sprang to his feet, swept the room with wide and petrified eyes. "Marcus, it's gone! THE FILE'S GONE!" He lurched forward and tore open the coffee table's top drawer, grasping frantically the same papers I'd brushed past only minutes before. "Where is it!?" he screamed, hurling the papers in the air. "WHERE IS IT!?"

Loose pages and folded booklets flew across the room as Landon tossed them aside, one after another, in search of whatever 'file' had gone missing from the dark box that lay open on the floor beside him.

I grasped Charity's journal in my hand, holding it and its key tightly to my chest. I glanced once at Dylan, who stared forward with unblinking eyes.

"Marcus, this is impossible," Landon rasped heavily into the phone. "This...is impossible."