SCRATCHED

Chapter 4

2020, Edgar Woods.

Hatred. He remembered it being trapped between his lungs as Uncle Ben drove through the misty roads. His car always smelled like cigarette, even when he wasn't smoking. As they cruised past the old and crooked Edgar Woods sign, Aiden knew he would never get used to it.

The hatred hadn't been for Uncle Ben or the smell of the 1985 Chevy Astro he had had since Aiden was a baby. It was for the woods, and the shuffling sounds of the leaves coupled with the sudden crack of dry twigs. It sounded to him like human bones, and the shuffles like the ghostly presence of unwanted spirits. Those horror movies were taking their toll.

Aiden had lied to himself, again. He had grown quite fond of the glitters of green during the day and the humming darkness at night, away from the piercing noises of Woodland. Though it was one of the quietest towns owing to its size and number of people, he still heard the noises in his mind when he was there. Every day. Every night.

The first time he realized he had lied to himself was when he had his head on his desk in Biology class. He was battling with the noises; the voices. And each time they visited with images of silky hair and ocean eyes, he would unsheathe denial from its beautiful house in his soul. His loyal sword always seemed to work.

Now, as he looked at the TV screen and then down at his phone, hoping for the call to go through, he knew those noises had followed him to the woods, disrupting his sanity and fondling with the little wires in his brain.

He felt his phone fly out of his hand. "Hey! Give that back."

"There are no Moans around here," his uncle said. "If there were, you would know that they react to loud sounds, like a ringing phone."

Aiden sighed, collecting it back. "I've left them like a million voicemails already," he looked at the TV. "I just hope they're OK."

Uncle Ben sank into the sofa, sighing. "No one's OK. Let's just hope they're alive. Hey, you want some spaghetti?" Uncle Ben stood with great effort. That couch was softer than a sheep's wool.

"Sure," Aiden said, his eyes glued to his phone, "Just don't make it like last time."

"And how was it last time?"

Aiden looked up at his Uncle, raising an eyebrow. Uncle Ben laughed wickedly. "OK OK, not like last time. Got it!" He disappeared into the kitchen.

Aiden stretched his legs to the shelves, where the dusty books were waiting to be picked up back to life. He had never read any, and his uncle didn't look like the reading type either. Most of the books were about history, wars, and motivation. One of them stood out. It was fiction. And it was the neatest of them all.

It was when Aiden picked it up and brushed his fingers against the cover that he wondered why his mind never noticed the shelves. The first time he got here, he had seen the fireplace. And though it was three times smaller than the one back home, his mind had been clear enough to notice the remains of a cigarette his uncle had threw in there, but never the shelves.

Something fell out of the book when he opened it. It was an old picture of Uncle Ben and his wife whom Aiden remembered calling Aunt Freya. He was a little boy when she passed away from childbirth. His uncle never talked about her that much, except little things he would say with a sad smile: Freyfrey hated cheese, Freyfrey could hike up a mountain with a bear on her back, et cetera.

There was writing at the back, in the finest handwriting he had ever seen. "Los momentos más bellos son aquellos que pasas con tus seres queridos," Aiden recited it quite terribly.

He heard a chuckle from across the room. His uncle made slow steps towards him. He looked down at the writing then flipped the picture over, a far-away look in his eyes. "The best of moments are those you spend with your loved ones," he whispered, almost to himself.