The Story Weaver

“It’ll be fun.”

Her voice is unusually cheerful as she helps pack my suitcase for a two-month trip. It's a forced cheerfulness that signals someone’s lying.

“How is an old castle in the middle of nowhere supposed to be fun?”

Mom lets out a sigh before settling on the mattress and patting the space beside her.

“Brynn, give it a chance. It’s one summer. It’ll be good for you with Dad being gone. We all need this time to deal with his death.”

“He’s not dead,” I cut in.

She places a hand on my shoulder. “It’s been too long, Brynn. I think we need to accept the fact that your father won’t be returning. The police have warned us that, at this stage, it’s a matter of recovering a body. It’s been over a year.” She tries her best to smile at me. She’s always putting on a brave front these days. “Besides, your aunt is excited about seeing you. Your father used to love this place. He told me stories about the castle, saying there was more to it than met the eye. Think of it as an adventure.”

I would argue with her, but there’s no point in pointing out the facts. She’s already decided. My dad is alive. Somehow, I know it. I have no plans to give up on my search. Perhaps exploring a spot my father often visited will lead me to his whereabouts. The lack of answers about his disappearance is troubling. Nothing about any of it makes sense.

Reaching for the brochure behind us, I pick it up to examine it. The thick paper is aged with time, but still in good condition. The castle on the front looks like something out of a fairy tale. I can’t fathom why anyone would build a castle in the south. If I could create something like that, I’d run as far away from the humidity and heat as possible. I won’t admit how beautiful it is and give more credence to my mom’s summer away idea. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that my summer is ruined. Sighing, I lay back and study the picture. I stop, noticing a shadow that draws my attention. The more I focus, the more confident I am that someone’s in one of those towers. I bring the paper closer for inspection, hoping to identify the form. It's hard to distinguish, but by the way the shadow is elongated and the figure is standing, it appears to be human.

“What do you think that is?”

Mom interrupts her packing and leans down, pausing as she places a shirt I’ll never wear in the suitcase. She frowns.

“What?”

I point. “Do you see it?”

She gives it a look before shrugging it off. “Honey, I see nothing.”

I gesture towards the exact location again. “Right there.”

She moves closer, inspecting the tower I indicated, and then shakes her head.

“I don’t see anything.”

“There’s a shadow.”

“Guest or camera mishap? You know how those things go, honey. Your dad was famous for believing too much in that paranormal stuff.”

Her smile from earlier has faded. The worry in her expression shows me the doubt left in its place. Perhaps she’s having second thoughts about her choice. Maybe she's having regrets about sending me away. There are shadows under her eyes. She hasn't slept well since my father disappeared. I hold my breath when she grabs my hand. The death grip she has on me makes me flinch.

“Brynn, don’t think too deeply. Please." Mom pauses. Closing her eyes, she lets out a sigh, one full of defeat. "Be careful. I can’t lose you, too.”

A shiver runs through me. The hand holding mine squeezes harder. There is desperation in her grip.

“Promise me.”

My brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”

“Promise me.”

Her voice is firm. With a swallow, I stare at our hands, joined together, and reply. Fear edges its way down my spine. It's not easy seeing Mom this vulnerable.

“I promise.”

My gaze returns to the image, and now I’m convinced I see a face, one with a sinister smile. As Mom focuses on packing again, I take a closer look. Humor flickers in the eyes that meet mine, but not the kind that makes you laugh. It’s the kind you should run from. With a toss of the brochure, I try to dismiss the fear overwhelming me. It’s nothing. I’ve listened to way too many of my father’s stories.

I’ll keep telling myself that, because if I don't, I will have to admit that the face staring back at me looks expectant. It's almost as if it knows I'm coming. Shuddering, I shake my head. That's not possible. Is it?