moving in

  Emmanuel had no father, not anymore. A husband who kills his wife was enough to discredit him as a part of his family; Emmanuel simply considered himself without parents, sitting in the passenger seat next to a complete stranger. His father wouldn’t have killed his mother, but this stranger would have and did. Six years ago, Emmanuel crying outside the door where his hospitalized mother laid, Will Doyle knelt down to match his height, took his shoulders, and made a promise. “You’re mother is going to be fine. I’m not going to let her die.” Emmanuel hadn’t blamed his father for her death because he truly believed Will did everything in his power to save her. But recently finding out that his father turned away when his mother was falling at her worse made him no longer a father, but a murderer.
  Will felt the silence closing in on him, something he had always been uncomfortable with. The radio had been broken for almost a month, never getting around to fixing it since him and his son, Emmanuel, had always been close enough to talk about anything and everything. But something was different today. Yesterday to Aunt Peggy’s, Emmanuel was his usual talkative self, but on the way back, that night, this morning, and now in the car, something was different about him, different about them. Will couldn’t understand, but got a threatening feeling that he shouldn’t ask what was bothering Emmanuel. Will thought that if he dared ask, his son would blow up in hysteric anger or, even worse, just shrug his words off his shoulder as if they had no value anymore. Even though Emmanuel was sixteen, the age most kids feel distant to their parents, Emmanuel had never been like that and had always talked to him when something was bothering him. Emmanuel and Will had always had an open relationship. What’s different now?
  The car, filled with silent anger, thoughts, screams, and sorrow, driving down a lonely back road for at least a couple hours, started to enter a small town. There were little quaint houses built over fifty years ago, some almost a hundred years ago, with smiling neighbors in their front lawn mowing their green grass, drinking lemonade in their rocking chairs on the porch, and little kids playing street ball, running and shouting with laughter. They all seemed so happy. The car turned down a small dead end street and into the driveway of the last house on the right.
  In front of him, Emmanuel beheld an old stone house with many trees and bushes about it. The sidewalk leading to the front porch had a large crack crawling up it, slowly veering to its edge where a wild flower grew. The green grass was uneven, yet pleasant, growing in splashes as if a large fish had just jumped into the lawn. The small tree, just a little taller than Emmanuel, growing by the aged picket fence held small pink blossoms, the yellow stamens accentuating its beauty. The many wild flowers scattered throughout the yard were pale violet, pink, and faded sky blue, most only three or so inches off the ground, just about as tall as the grass. In whole, the house seemed warm and inviting, but it was just that, a house. It wasn’t Emmanuel’s home. A home, thought Emmanuel, is a place where children can live happily with their parents. It wasn’t Emmanuel’s home.
  Will was already at the trunk of the car, strapping as many bags as he could fit onto his back, struggling just to keep from toppling over. Emmanuel opened the car door, an immediate feeling of ‘small town’ washing over him. He could imagine that this was a homey place where people would like to retire to or to settle down to start a family, but not for Emmanuel. He was never too keen with the idea of moving to [insert town name here], but now, with this stranger’s secret who he’d be living with uncovered after six years, it was especially hard for him to let in this town’s welcome.
  Emmanuel opened the front gate with a creak and walked up the sidewalk, seeing a lovely little ladybug along the way. He stepped up onto the porch, half hidden by the tall bushes, and got out his copy of the house key from his pocket. Opening the door, Emmanuel saw the living room he had once visited. It was a nice size, not too big, but not too small either. It was perfect for just stretching out. Through the naked doorway ahead stood the kitchen. It seemed rather small with the dining table centered and counters, a stove, a refrigerator, and two doors along the walls. The side door to the left led outside again while another naked doorway stood on the right, leading to a hallway. Through the opposing door of the hallway and to the left was Emmanuel’s room he had picked out almost a week ago. Inside was nothing but two stacked mattresses in the corner, not yet dressed, brought in yesterday by the movers.
  Emmanuel laid belly down on his bed, elbows on mattress and chin resting within his cupped hands. He turned over, wiggled his legs, rolled, and just couldn’t keep still as he thought of what Aunt Peggy had told him yesterday. She thought he had known, and after hearing, Emmanuel wished he still hadn’t known. The thought gnawed in his mind, itched, and the more Emmanuel thought of it, the more it irritated. And yet he couldn’t keep it out of his head.
  Finally, Emmanuel supposed that if he got up, maybe took a walk to get some fresh air, he’d feel better about the situation. He tripped out of bed and fumbled to the ground; something had knocked him down. Emmanuel lifted up his head, still laying on the ground, and looked behind him. His foot must have lifted a loose floorboard. Emmanuel immediately sat himself in Indian style, facing the half open floorboard. He slid the floorboard across the room and looked inside the cobwebby hole in front of him. Perfect place to keep his treasure, he thought, and where the stranger living with him, the stranger he couldn’t trust anymore, wouldn’t ever suspect. Emmanuel slid his hand inside to clear out the cobwebs, but he found something more than just a spider’s trap. Afraid it may rip at the slightest jerky movement, Emmanuel pulled out an aged note with care, which was cursively handwritten in faded ink. It was barely legible, but he could still make out what it read when he squinted his eyes.

Its calling won’t die
Until you comply
And follow the rules of the game.
Pemercyle Woods,
The wild backwoods,
If you listen, whispers your name.
Below your feet,
Down buried deep,
Is a treasure terribly lost.
It truly thirsts
To be unearthed,
No matter what time it may cost.

  Pemercyle Woods, now why did that sound so familiar? Of course, Emmanuel had heard some kids talking about it last time he was here and how close it was to his new house. Will was signing some papers while Emmanuel went off with the neighborhood kids. They were trying to scare him, talking about The Pemercyle Curse, saying how this one boy, almost forty years ago, disappeared into the woods. “My parents even remember Hector!” one kid had said. Hector, the boy Pemercyle swallowed, as he was better known as, had supposedly went into the woods one night and was never seen again, leaving the woods to blame for his disappearance. Emmanuel didn’t believe in this curse stuff, though. If there ever was a Hector, than he most likely just got lost one day, or maybe even fell into the brook, but Pemercyle did not swallow him. The Pemercyle Curse is just a story, Emmanuel believed, that had been passed down for generations, gradually passing the thin line between fiction and fear over the years, creating their own little haunting. This seemed perfectly plausible, seeing as how The Amityville Horror and The Bell Witch stories came about the same way.
  “Its calling won’t die until you comply and follow the rules of the game,” Emmanuel said softly to himself. He had to follow the rules, follow the calling. “Pemercyle Woods, the wild backwoods, if you listen, whispers your name.” He was to venture into Pemercyle Woods, the place that was calling him, in order to play the game. “Below your feet, down buried deep, is a treasure terribly lost.” There was something under the infamous woods, somebody had buried their treasure there. “It truly thirsts to be unearthed, no matter what time it may cost.” They wanted their treasure to be found, they wanted Emmanuel to dig until he found whatever it is. Besides being in Pemercyle Woods, Emmanuel had no clue as to where it could be, though. Emmanuel sighed in disappointment because, him being as curious as he is, he wanted to find out what exactly was out there buried in Pemercyle Woods. Somebody’s treasure, not necessarily gold and money, but something special to someone had buried it for later years and Emmanuel wanted to find out what.
  There was a knock at the door, but Emmanuel didn’t answer. Therefore, the footsteps walked away slowly. Emmanuel knew Will was hurting, but tried not to care. Time for that walk.
  Emmanuel slipped the note back inside his secret compartment, too afraid he’d destroy the precious poem if he tried to carry it with him, and locked the floorboard in place. He stood himself up and opened his bedroom door. When he reached the kitchen, he saw Will in the living room, so decided to take the side door instead of the front. There was a much smaller screened in porch that would barely hold two chairs, if even that. The dirty screen door of the porch squeaked open and slammed itself shut loudly, making Emmanuel cringe at the nasty noise.
  Emmanuel started heading down the street, not exactly sure where he was going, just walking, walking it off. He made a right when he got to the T at the end of the street because to the left there seemed to be nothing but houses. A little further, he made a left because he saw a baseball field down that way. It wasn’t baseball season, but a group of friends, maybe his own age, playing with their tattered gloves, old bat, and worn baseball. The ball flew right at Emmanuel’s feet.
  “You want to join?” the smallest of them asked.
The others encouraged, but Emmanuel tossed the ball back over the fence and said, “Sorry, I’ve got somewhere to be. Maybe next time.”
  “We’re here every Saturday at four. You should come play sometime,” a freckled boy with strawberry blonde hair said. Emmanuel nodded. Emmanuel did love baseball, in fact, he used to be one of the best players at his previous school, but today he just wanted to walk.
  Not too far off Emmanuel spotted a small library, looked like the only library in this little town. He walked through the front door and immediately smelled must; the place must be ancient. There were only four aisles of books, a bathroom, and a lady behind the check out counter to his right. The library was completely deserted except for the librarian and himself.
  “Hello, young boy. Are you new here? I know just about everyone in this small little town of [insert town name here], but I don’t believe I’ve ever met you, now have I?” The middle-aged woman behind the desk had curly locks falling right above her elbows, her smile warm and comforting, and her green eyes had a special twinkle about them.
  “Yeah, just moved here.” Emmanuel held out a gentlemanly hand and they introduced each other. “I’m Emmanuel. Used to live in Krum, but we decided that our house was too big and too expensive for just two people.”
  “Hi, Emmanuel. I’m Mrs. Wendy Pepiot. I’ve lived here my entire life and became the librarian to this here library for almost twelve years. Wonderful little place.” She admired her library and even though it was empty, Emmanuel could see that she completely loved it, even with its faults.
  “Do you mind if I take a look around?”
  “Of course not,” said Mrs. Pepiot, snapping back from her admiration of her library. “Just don’t hesitate to ask any questions, dear.”
  Emmanuel hid around the farthest aisle and sunk himself into a corner, his nose buried within a biography of Edger Allen Poe. He loved Poe as much as he loved Stephen King, and that’s really saying something considering that his bookshelves at home were mainly consisting of many King books, all of which he’s read at least twice. The next page he turned though, his finger sat right where a fly had apparently been smashed between the pages. Ew!
  Getting up immediately, leaving the book where it lay in the corner, Emmanuel rushed to the restroom, eager to clean off the fly’s guts now on his finger. He opened the door to a small one person bathroom. The above yellow light was flickering, making a buzzing sound as well. On the walls, people had written such stuff as, “Kayla & Tyler 4ever” surrounded by an enclosing heart and music lyrics that Emmanuel recognized, but there was something that caught his eye as he was washing his hands. There was strange writing on the opposing wall that he saw through the mirror. It didn’t consist of English characters, but it didn’t look oriental either. It was much more elegant, having soft curls and simple strokes.
  When Emmanuel exited the restroom, he asked Mrs. Pepiot, “By any chance, would you have a book over languages?”
  Mrs. Pepiot broke into a smile. “Of course, darling. About halfway down the third aisle, second shelf from the bottom. There should be some over Spanish, French, sign language, et cetera.”
  Her smile was starting to creep Emmanuel out, so he quickly left saying, “Thanks, Mrs. Pepiot,” behind his shoulder, her smile still getting scarier.
  Halfway down the third aisle, second shelf from the bottom. Emmanuel sat himself down and flipped through the titles. Quick Spanish, Simplified Chinese, Sign Language for Dummies, French Sayings, Theban, German Made Easy, wait. Emmanuel backed up, pulling the Theban book out of its shelf; he had never heard of such a thing before. The book seemed quite old and dusty compared to the others, the pressed gold lettering spelling “Theban” on the cover even seemed old. Inside, he read that Theban was a common language used among witches and warlocks back in the 1800’s. It was no longer practiced, though, because the townspeople started figuring out that those who wrote in Theban were witches and they’d be burned at the stake that night. Although, some ouija boards were still out today (1920’s when the book was written) that were written in Theban. Emmanuel turned the next page and found the Theban alphabet, listed in two columns, roughly matching the lettering on the bathroom wall.
  Emmanuel, in his hurry to stand up, almost fell right back down on the ground, but caught the ledge of the book shelf just in time. Trying to stifle his excitement and curiosity of what may be written on the bathroom wall, Emmanuel walked slower this time. Although, with each step he took, Emmanuel sped up just a second faster. By the time he reached the bathroom, he was at a slow jog.
  He turned the doorknob and opened the bathroom door once again. Even though it was still rundown, Emmanuel saw it as more beautiful than the last time. He loved to figure out puzzles, again because of his curiosity. He sat down on the toilet, lid down, of course, and opened the book to the appropriate page. Okay, the first letter looked almost like a W, but with a tail. The next, the top half of a heart trailing down to a tail with a little stroke near the end. Emmanuel kept following the marks and figuring out letters. Sometimes it was hard because some letters were exactly the same except for one little dot or it would curve slightly. Finally, Emmanuel strung together the letters he was storing in his head, spelling out C E I L I N G.
  He looked up at the bathroom ceiling above. It seemed ordinary enough; it was the same kind of ceiling that all school’s were made out of, the kind where kids would throw pencils up at it to see how many they can get to stick into the tender tiles. Which also meant that they’re the same kind that Emmanuel would often hide stuff in! Emmanuel and his friends back in Krum would hide notes in the ceiling for their friend coming into the class after them; they would get the notes in and out while the teacher was outside the classroom between tardy bells. It was a long shot, but Emmanuel was willing to give it a try.
  Balancing himself on top of the back of the toilet, Emmanuel reached up to the nearest tile and pushed it up and over. He reached his hand inside, feeling along the edges, but nothing was there. He carefully placed the ceiling tile in its original place and tried the next one over. Emmanuel did this to four tiles before he realized that there was only one tile that was slightly discolored in the very middle of the ceiling. Emmanuel stretched one leg over to the edge of the sink, straddling between the sink and toilet. Right above him, he reached up his arms and lifted the tile out of the way. There was nothing so far, nothing yet, aha! Emmanuel brought down a small black book. It was only about the size of Emmanuel’s flat hand tied shut with leather straps. In silver, there were more Theban words printed on the cover with five stars lined under the writing.
  Emmanuel jumped down and made the toilet a seat again, resting the leather book on the back of the toilet and the Theban book in his lap. He pieced together the strange writing until he found that the cover of the leather book read P U R P L E  T R E E. Emmanuel hadn’t the slightest idea of what this could mean, so went ahead and unbound the leather straps and opened the small book, hoping to find some clues as to what ‘purple tree’ could mean.
  But there was nothing. Flipping through the pages, Emmanuel saw that they were all blank. Before he even reached the end, Emmanuel closed the book and stood up, ready to leave the bathroom. A small clinking noise sounded from behind as Emmanuel started to reach for the doorknob, which, of course, turned him around. He saw that a small key had dropped. The skeleton key had been hidden somewhere among the back pages of the little leather book, Emmanuel supposed, where he hadn’t yet checked. Picking up the key cautiously, Emmanuel wondered what the key was supposed to unlock and why it was hidden. Does it have something to do with ‘purple tree’?
  The librarian knocked on the door. “You’ve been in there an awfully long time, son. Are you alright?”
  Emmanuel tried desperately to hide everything. Putting the key in his pocket, he said, “Oh, oh yeah. I’m alright. Just, just dropped something that I had to find. That’s, that’s all.” By now, Emmanuel had one foot on the ledge of the sink and the other on the back of the toilet again. The book was in the ceiling and he was now putting the tile in its place. He quickly jumped down and ran to the door. Mrs. Pepiot stood there with that strange smile again. “I, I just forgot about that language book,” he spit out in a hurry. He looked around for a second, spotted the book on the floor, and quickly picked it up and grinned at her. “See? That’s all.”
  “There was a lot of noise in there, you know. Are you sure you’re alright?”
  “Um, sure, yeah, I’m, I’m doing just peachy keen, Mrs. Pepiot.” Emmanuel didn’t want her to find out about what he’d been up to because he didn’t think that he was supposed to find that little book or the key, considering how it was hidden and all. He nervously slid passed her, and said, “Yeah, I, I think I’ll be leaving now,” and hurried over to the door, dropping the Theban book on the counter as he left. He thought he heard Mrs. Pepiot, still standing by the restroom door, say a goodbye, but he was too far down the street to hear.
  Walking by the baseball field, the kids winding up their game, Emmanuel took out the key in his pocket. It was smaller than other skeleton keys he had seen before, about the size of his index finger, and instead of gold, it was silver. It held the usual two prongs at one end, but at the other was a very decorative clover shaped handle. There were several very small jewels, which looked like, as far as Emmanuel could tell, diamonds, peridot, and ruby, that lined the outside of the three leaf clover shape. Within these leaves, thin silver entwined and curled, making for a very elegant design. But Emmanuel couldn’t help but dwell on what this key was supposed to unlock. He was almost sure it had something to do with ‘purple tree,’ but if only he understood what that meant itself then he’d be able to start disentangling this puzzle he’s stumbled upon.
  Emmanuel turned onto his dead end street and saw the orangey red sun setting behind Pemercyle Woods. He hadn’t seen this before, but in the evening, the glowing ember casting its eerie shine over Pemercyle, Emmanuel could see that the woods were somehow alive. The thin twisting arms were stretching upward, as if attempting to climb out of the wickedness it had become and the tears seemed too visible for Emmanuel’s liking. Its aching screams were carried in the wind, calmly blowing by his ears as a casual hello. Nearing the house, Emmanuel meant to go inside, he really did, and yet he didn’t. He was at the front door, hand on doorknob, when a sudden gust came from behind blowing towards Pemercyle as if, just as the poem had described, calling him in. Emmanuel took a step closer, another, and then another. He was at the very edge, watching the wind gently sway the leaves and the birds call softly.
  One step in. Emmanuel looked down at his feet, his involuntary feet, which carried him into Pemercyle Woods. Following each foot after the other, Emmanuel just seemed to follow the strange wind, constantly changing directions. The trees here, even in the summer, were mainly dead; tall and brave, but still dead. The few that were alive were just small saplings with pale winter green leaves, innocently standing there, trapped here, not able to leave. Looking ahead, Emmanuel saw that there was a tree out of place, a large tree still thriving with color. His feet hastened.
  Coming into the clearing where this tree stood, Emmanuel looked up and gasped. Its many small blue blossoms seemed almost a shade of purple against the deep red background in the sky; it was the purple tree. Emmanuel knew exactly what to do. Falling to his knees, he began to dig. His nails became filthy and his clothes gained stains, but he still dug. About half a foot in, he’d start digging another hole at another empty spot by the trunk until a mote was dug. In his original digging area, he clawed out just another foot more and went around in a circle again.  The deeper he got, the faster he could hear his little heart beating in his ears. He felt he was so close, he just couldn’t stop now. “Ow!”
  Emmanuel lifted his bleeding finger, being pricked by a splinter. A splinter? Emmanuel looked down where he dug; there was something there. Ignoring his finger, he dug around the area, uncovering a wooden box. The wooden box was carved into the purple tree’s large buried root, the lid being hinged on with decorative carvings of flowers and plants along the edges. In the very center was a small crystal knob. Emmanuel lifted, but it didn’t open. He tried forcing it open for a moment or two until he realized there was a small keyhole right under the knob. Emmanuel got out the skeleton key from his pocket, the small peculiar key he had been pondering about.
  The key fit comfortably within the keyhole, seemingly glad to have found its home, sliding slowly until Emmanuel heard a small click. He left the key in its place and wrapped his fingers around the crystal knob. What was in here that was so secretive? Who designed this box and treasure hunt as well? What was the purpose? Emmanuel felt that his questions were soon to be answered.
  The box was lined with dark purple velvet, only one item lying within—a thin silver strand necklace with a small, delicate heart shaped locket. Emmanuel felt complete calmness within Pemercyle when he gingerly picked up the necklace, everything stood still, the birds stopped chirping, and the distant brook emitted no noise. All there was was the necklace.
  Emmanuel opened the locket.