Half Light

Rural Town

"WE'RE HERE, PLUM!" Her mother shouted, as Alina's heart nearly shot through her chest. "Here, where?" She snarked back, as her heart was still beating like a hummingbird. "Lycanstown." "We're in West Virginia, darlin'!" Her mother sang so ecstatically, her accent slipping right through her teeth. "Lycanstown?" Alina repeated snickering, "Lycans." As in, "Werewolves?" She sounded more sarcastic than she initially meant to.  Her mother turned and gazed at her with hollowed eyes, as she raised an eyebrow, scolded "Now that is an offensive term, Alina Lyall." She only used Alina's middle name when she was in trouble...which was basically all the time. Alina was quite confused as to what offended her mother, so she said nothing more. Her mother was a grenade. You would never know what could be said that would pull her ring, but complete silence always seemed to be her detonator. She always had a temper, and always for what seemed like no reason at all. Alina brought up conversation so her mother wouldn't think she was trying to ignore her, which was never what she intended to do purposefully.

Alina shut down because she seemed to have always made her mother mad in some way or another. She has never been able to be herself around anyone, especially her mother. Alina's under the impression when she was a kid, she was hyperactive, and always asking questions. Her mother, probably clueless on how to handle her, scolded her mostly. Sometimes things come back to her in bits and pieces, but Alina does not know for sure if those are just dreams. She just chocks it up as her mind creating a wall to survive, and buries it somewhere inside the lengthy halls of her mind. The way she looks at it, it should stay right where it is. Her head always starts to pound when she thinks about it. A knot starts to swell in her throat like when you accidentally swallow too much, too fast. Nothing good can come from reliving that, Alina sympathizes. She has been called cold, emotionless, a sociopath. But she has also been called hot-headed, sensitive, and even compassionate. So which is it? she wonders. Who is she? Alina contemplates in her head a lot. She's only sixteen. Sitting there in that metal death trap with her mother, she has the feeling she's about to get answers to things she never knew she would need. It gave her anxiety. But most things did.
It's in the middle of October, as they drove through yet another small, rural town. The air crisp with the smell of smoke, and chilled to what felt like the negatives, but the temp-gauge said forty-one. This is the first time Alina has experienced this type of weather, or season at that. "A long way from California..." that little voice in her head uttered almost exuberant.

She heard the heavy breeze guiding itself through the falling leaves on the yellowing trees. Every home they drove past stood two stories high, and you could see their age from the street. She was home. She could feel it. Her mother drove them up a long, winded, overgrown driveway that felt like it went on for at least a mile. Until Alina finally saw the most sizable home she had ever encountered. "Was this a mansion?" the little voice questioned. "How could ma afford for us to stay here?" Even with the moss growing through the stone on the dilapidated siding, it hardly was anything but affordable. Even if they were in West Virginia. Alina's head crammed with even more questions, as she asked her mother "Are you sure this is our house?" Nora was in awe of this mysteriously intriguing residence. "Yes, plum, this is our home." "This was daddy's home as a boy." "His family left it to him, and he willed it to be ours, if something were to ever happen." Her mother sounded as if it was expected for something to become of him. Alina shrugged it off, and continued to stare into the grimy, caked windows of what would be her new life. There had to be about twenty panes of soiled glass, just on the plastered visage alone. On the right of the building stood what seemed to be a tower intertwined with the roof, with the tiniest of windows just below the mossy, rotting trim. "How peculiar." Alina thought to herself. "Why does someone need this many windows?"

Right then it hit her subconscious, "Plenty of daylight." "Vampires." Alina felt foolish even thinking that for a second, but ever since she had that dream the night she turned thirteen, a little part of her still felt like it had to be real. Though she never remembered waking up, it had to be a dream. She was thirteen with an overactive imagination. This was a secret she always kept to herself, though. That she always believed in the supernatural. So why does she feel like her daddy's family must have known that they exist too. Why is that the question her mind targeted. "Why else would they live in a Northern mundane version of The Addams Family?" She sarcastically thought. Although this whole situation felt more Stephen King than even she could appreciate, she knew not to mention any of this to her mother. She was already acting far more strange than usual. Alina decided to just keep quiet. It was what she did best. Right as Alina looked back at the slouched tower, out of the corner of her eye she saw a figure swipe across the second story window. "What...the..." Alina turned to her mother, who was already halfway towards the front door. "Wait!" Alina shouted, "I saw something!" "Don't go up there, Ma!" Her mother turned around with an entertained grin on her face, "C'mon plum, ain't nothin' to be afraid of here." "This is home." Without even trying to hide her accent anymore. Not feeling any sliver of reassurance, Alina ran and cradled her mothers' arm like a terrified child, as she opened the enormous, decaying door.

A loud, petrified creaking filled the inside of the hallowed walls, and the smell wafted through her nostrils. Old. It was old. Full of mildew. She wanted to be appalled, but something about what she smelled was almost comforting. She gazed over at her mother, who was running her hand over the dust-coated staircase, as if in a trance. Nora had been here before. She seemed for the first time in a long time, content. Alina felt a crooked smile emerge on the left side of her cheek, and continued strutting through the foyer. Alina glanced up at the water spotted ceiling, and spun around in circles until everything merged into a daze. She giggled as if she were a toddler who just learned how to walk. She felt free. She felt like herself. As if for the first time in her entirety, she knew who she was. A loud crash from the second story shook both Alina and her mother from whatever euphoric state they were in. "Ma..." Alina stated, frozen in stance. "It's alright, plum." "Probably just some boards that were already comin' down whether we were here or not." "Like that sayin' If a tree falls in the middle of the woods, does it really make a sound?" "Guess it does, huh?" Her mother cackled to herself, trying to sound confident. "Yea." Alina replied reluctantly, "Guess so." As she said that, she wouldn't take her eyes off of the top of the stairs. Something was there. Something was watching them. Alina wasn't sure how, but she could sense it. Whether it was good or bad, she had absolutely no clue. But she had to be certain. She took to the wooden stairwell. Her mother swayed towards the kitchen, as graceful and delicate as a sugar plum fairy. The stairs were worn and swelled from the moisture. Alina made her way up slowly towards the top of the hallway with her heart galloping, not necessarily from fear, but anticipation of what awaited there.

"Is something here with us?" "Why am I not more afraid?" "Does ma know something she isn't telling me?" Questions again filling her conscience as if she already knew. Hesitantly reaching the top, stairs surprisingly sturdy, the hallway is filled with leaves and debris. There had to be about six rooms on each side, consuming both ends of the halls. "Why do you need this much space in one house?" She thought. Unfocused on the reason behind her exploration, she was drawn to the open room to the left of the staircase. Directly in the middle of the large stained glass window she noticed before even stepping in, stood a properly placed round crib with its flat white paint chipping off of the delicately aged jailed frame. Vertically above was what seemed to be a hand-made, old fashioned mobile. It was overgrown with dust, and the darkest mold coated the honey oak that it once was. She could make out what seemed to be tiny, whittled wolves. It was strategically tiered in three orders, each holding a decaying oak wolf, strung by roped twine. Brittle enough to break from just looking at it. It all felt too familiar to Alina. "Had I seen this before?" "Had I been here before?" "Why have the overall sensation of finding answers here, when all that I seem to find are more questions?" "What's been hidden from me?" "Do I really want to know?" A never ending script of questions repeating throughout her subconscious.