Between a river and moist prairie, a train slices landscape, flattening rain against its windows. Its mechanical parts profess a screech to the air in warning, and they say, "Keep careful watch over your children, lest the water decides to take them."

The passengers of the vehicle are minimal and this warning falls on ignorant ears. All these terrible things to come...preventable. If only they listened. Turned around. Left, with their children held close. 

Perhaps if a young woman had been more careful in walking back to her seat on the train, her stumble would've been preventable, as would the following flush of heat in her round cheeks. Not that anyone can provide eyewitness testimony to it. Of the four people present, two have noses stuck in books. She's certain one is blind, and the other hasn't emerged from the bathroom in a while. A distant flush serves as a terrifying reminder.

Nevertheless, her plump fingers twine into the fabric of her sweater, wiping clean the sweat and caffeine residue from her brief excursion. I need to pay attention, she thinks. Scope out what I'm riding into. She turns to the window, eager for distraction.

The landscape has been the same for hours. The train is an older model too, and moves slower than what she's used to in Boston. Bleak fields carry on without an end. It's what - no, who - wanders within the dead stalks of wheat that intrigue her. She can't help but stare even though she knows she shouldn't. 

The figures are spread apart, unwilling to intermingle. One is of tall stature, bearded, and donned in some old-fashioned blue uniform. The sort she's seen in history textbooks over the Civil War. Don't make eye contact with the soldiers. They're moodier.

The train passes him by. A little later, another man appears, bone-thin and humbling along in overalls that hang from his form. His gait is lopsided and the air around him wavers with an ethereal quality. Harmless entity. Still a lonely one.

The farmer abandons her line of sight and a far smaller being emerges from the tall grasses. She stretches as though she's just woken up and smooths her muddied pink dress. The passenger presses her hand to the cold window glass, and at the same time, the little girl glances up. Even from that distance, with space and speed (if you could call it that) separating them, they make eye contact. 

The child's ratty brown hair flutters in front of her face and she vanishes. Nothing is left of the space where she'd been standing.

"Hm." The kid was probably some adventurer who'd not had the energy to go back the way she came. Fell down right in the middle of the field to sleep and never woke back up. Undoubtedly a confused entity. The confused ones are always a little more jumpy, she's come to note. And a little more little.

Tragic.

An outcry of noise screams into the otherwise silent train car. Arms lunge for the device beside her, quick to cancel the dry pop tunes vibrating against the seat. "Shit," she says - earning her a scowl from the blind man in her general direction. "Sorry." Quickly, a cold finger swipes the screen, and she presses the phone to her ear. "Hello?"

"Lacey," a tired voice says, "Lacey? Hey, honey."

"Hi, dad," Lacey says, effectively forgetting the souls in the prairie. Finally having something to listen to other than the chuh-chuh of the train benefits her posture. "I'm almost there, I think. Iowa's pretty big when you factor in all the dirt and farmhouses."

"No, it's fine, it's fine. There's no rush or anything. You've got the whole spring and summer here. Hell, I'm not even home yet. Take all the time you need, stop and smell the roses, hop in some puddles." Strain lingers at the end of his sentence like he wants to continue but he keeps quiet. 

Lacey sighs. Only pity pushes her to guide him through the conversation. Their calls tend to go this way. "What, you want mud tracked through the house?"

"I've gotten pretty good with a mop, y'see. Plus this isn't your mom's house. You know I don't care as long as everything gets cleaned up."

"And that's why you're the fun parent."

"Yeah, well, tell that to your mother. Don't, actually. I don't need her bull about 'you're brainwashing our child, blah, blah, blah.' Don't tell her I said that either."

A chuckle leaves Lacey's lips and she glimpses out the window again, listening as his infectious laughter travels across the line.

"Anyways, I've gotta get back to work. I'll be there to pick you up at the station when you get here in, say...half an hour, d'you think?"

Lacey hums affirmation. They exchange brief goodbyes and the standard "I love yous," and when all is mute, she shoves the phone into the pocket of her yellow sweater and takes to admiring the blurred landscape yet again. Let's hope things stay fun when I get there. More wet pattering thunks the windows, a new drizzle, and her thick brows furrow at the sight. And that it's not pouring, either.

Eventually, ancient fields become the occasional cluster of trees struggling to grow back what they lost over the winter. The river on the opposing side of the tracks diverges elsewhere, fading into cracked asphalt and abandoned timber houses. They're getting close.

Carrick, Iowa, is about as close to a hometown as Lacey Waits will ever get. It jsn't some cozy and nostalgic place you'd expect to look back on, or even want to. It's simply a place where people are born, grow, and die. A place in the world where things sometimes happen but sometimes don't. Much of the region is derelict and untouched, but the core of it is kept up-to-date enough to seem progressive, the old hidden away by overgrowth while the new gets fresh planks and bright paint. 

Her ribs tighten with unease. Boston with her mother is much nicer.

Better that her stay is only two seasons instead of four.

Relief comes with another shriek of the train, less an omen than an announcement of arrival. "We're here!" it declares. Lacey shoots to attention before the engine's slow and scraping halt begins. Suitcase in hand and joints cracking with every step down the corridor, her haste might've been mistaken for eagerness. In reality, the seats were harder than she would've liked and sitting for so long had an adverse effect on her spine, even being only seventeen.

And she'd actually spoken with the dead who claim aching backs in their day. It isn't a fun time once you're old enough to feel it, no. You're pretty much already dead once all that starts. 

Bustling off the train, Lacey's entrance into Carrick's earthy atmosphere leaves her breathing in copious amounts of rainy air. The thick scent of mud and diesel. Ah, yes, she thinks, cringing at the touch of icy droplets against her forehead, I just love catching pneumonia. A favorite pastime of mine.

Her suitcase drags unwillingly against the concrete. Yellow sneakers squelch against the grey earth. In taking a look around, hands stuffed in pockets, she decides she dressed too brightly for the occasion, as all this place has to offer are neutral hues. She'd make a joke about funerals if it weren't taboo with the whole, y'know, "I see dead people, ooh" thing. 

A few minutes pass. Headlights blare from the head of a red truck Lacey has the displeasure of knowing. She pulls her suitcase upright, dripping and soggy after resting in puddles, and steps forward once the truck slows to a stop.

"You're a couple minutes late, old man," she says, grunting into a comfortable position in the passenger seat. "I could've gotten hypothermia in those couple minutes."

"I sincerely doubt it," Dad says. He doesn't say much else after that, occupied with staring at his daughter - something Lacey probably has to get accustomed to, considering he hasn't seen her in years. "Your hair got long. And I'm glad to see mom's been feeding you well."

A puff of air left rosy cheeks. "I guess." Nothing more on that. Dad opens his mouth as if to say more but clamps those lips shut and starts the drive towards a graveyard of worn out memories: otherwise, home.

As they bumble along, the uncomfortable silence keeps her restless - too much like the train ride - and flicks a finger at the radio. The song that comes through is less song and more noise, and she cringes, twisting the volume down until the faint whispers of country music are hardly audible. "What did you do to it?"

"What do you mean, what did I do to it?" Dad glimpses to the side, then back at the road.

"I mean it sounds horrible. You must've taken a bat to it or something."

An amused breath leaves his nostrils. He shrugs. "Just time."

The next pause is more content. Lacey tries not to stare, but the occasional glimpse passes under her blonde lashes. It's been a long time since she's seen her father too. There isn't much new about him. Maybe a couple wrinkles, and his appearance is cleaner in dress and gruffer in the face. He's probably alone a lot. And she remembers their old house being rather big.

She sighs and looks out the water-streamed windshield, chin in her hands. They pass a few houses with faces in the doorways or window-frames. Some sit on the roof in the rain, skeletal bodies folded up and watching them pass. It isn't something that scares her - she's had a lot of time to get used to the wavering, often twitchy figures, right along with their tendency to disappear and reappear at times where it doesn't even make sense. Souls are tricky business.

Dad ignores them the whole drive, mostly 'cause he can't see them, but nobody can hold that against him as the pair pulls into the drive and the engine hisses off. "Well," he clicks his door open, "home sweet home, I guess."

Lacey hops out of the truck, nearly falling in the process. The house is two stories, each panel a pale blue, dulled by clouds and trees that clearly can't recognize a need for personal space.

No different from the last time she'd seen it.

Pulling the suitcase behind her, she hops over the gushing gutter and onto the porch, getting there before her father. "C'mon, Dad. Be spry."

"My spry days are over," he says, squinting down at a ring of keys. "I'm fine with being all old and boring, thank you very much. Now go get settled so we can talk about how homeschooling's gonna go down."

He shoves the door open and Lacey takes a flamboyant bow before entering the house. None of the lights are on but all the blinds are yanked as high as they go, decorating the floor in an abundance of grey, natural lighting. She assumes the rest of the house is the same, and hurries up the stairs before her luggage can drip all over the floor any more than it already has. Each one creaks under her weight. Dad got older and so did the house. Sounds like my knees on that train. 

After spinning herself around the stair newel, she shoves open the door to her old room. The sight and feel of dust in the air is practically an assault, crowding to get out into the hallway. "Oh, jeez," she coughs, "he couldn't clean it? Like, at all?" Apparently not. When she lets the bag drop onto the floor, half a dust storm rises up from the ashes. Like a super gross phoenix. 

Even though she can hardly take the air, she closes the door behind her. To avoid dying, she also tugs the collar of her shirt over her nose. 

Protected, a phone finds itself in her hand, and she finds her texts. A pleasant smile appears at the sight of an Erie Mott, message already there.

Erie: Holy shit, you're here!! AH. come visit me when you get the chance, buddy. It's been a while.

Sent 4:37 pm

She snorts and subsequently sneezes, the first of many, and unfortunately directed at her screen. "Ah, shit."

"Bless you, Miss Waits."

That voice doesn't belong to her father. Before her, standing amidst a thin cloud of floating white specks, is another one of those wavering, twitchy fellas. But not so much a fella 'cause she's a woman, with the illusion of skin, at least. Lacey's shoulders relax. 

Quickly rubbing her nose, Lacey waves with her free hand. "Hi, Carol."

The woman's outline dims and her wrinkled hands fidget. Her presence is akin to a continuous sigh. "I hope all this rain isn't getting you sick. The last thing we need is our telephone spazzing out because she got wet."

Carol died twenty years earlier of some incurable disease and a horrible grandson. Blunt, but true. She'd been the first to approach Lacey, sending her screaming down the street at just seven years old. In comparison to some others, she would soon come to realize that Carol was a gem, and wouldn't do anything to ever hurt anyone. At the time it was still a pretty traumatizing experience. But so was crashing your bike into a tree, so what could she say?

The woman drifts over to the windowsill and bends down until her thin lips are even with the ledge. They part, and a faint cloud of mist flicks off the spirit's tongue, tiny white specks clicking against the window before landing delicately on the sill.

Lacey takes a step forward to reach out, but still brings her arms back to her body in hesitation. "You don't have to do that. I've gotta clean anyways."

"One can never be too careful," Carol says, spreading the salt around with her vaguely translucent fingertips until a makeshift line is situated along the whole sill. "I doubt you'll get to it until tomorrow anyways. Getting snatched in the middle of the night probably isn't on your list of things to do."

Lacey bites her cheek. "Fair point."

"You might as well go catch up with your dad, hon. He's been real lonely. Plus I've got a lot of windows to cover and it'll take a while."

Lacey opens the door. A brief "thank you" is tossed Carol's way - there'd be plenty of time to talk later. She looks back down at the still-running phone. A quick response of "I'll meet you at the theater near eight" types itself out, and midway down the stairs a surprisingly quick reply comes in.

Erie: can't wait! Should I bring Mittens? I know you <3 pussy

Lacey chokes on laughter, and would've missed a step had her father not popped over from the kitchen. It'd be embarrassing if she got injured after only ten minutes. "What's up?"

"Change of plans. I got a call from Elijah - you remember Eli - since the rain stopped, and he's organizing another quick search party for the next couple hours. I know it's not the most enthusiastic of father-daughter bonding experiences, but...would you want to come?"

Lacey blinks. "Search party? What's he searching for?"

Dad scratches the back of his head, fingers scraping through the salt-and-pepper. "His daughter," he finally says. He shifts his weight to the other foot in a fit of discomfort. "You don't have to come, but I thought I'd go since he's a family friend."

She considers this a moment. Staying home alone isn't the safest, bearing in mind Carol's still setting up the defenses, and she doesn't really have much else to do. "I guess, sure."

"Great. Back to the truck we go."

"Oh, joy."

As promised, another trip commences. A congregation has already been built in the parking lot they arrive at. The small group lingers outside an expanse of forest, devoid of most of its leaves and nothing more than a stretch of tangled black branches. Not exactly inviting. 

When they park, a short, stout, olive-skinned man with a green winter cap pulled down over his ears claps Lacey's father on the back. He held more creases and crow's feet than her own father. More hair, too, black and tied up into a ponytail. "Thanks for coming out, man. I really appreciate you taking the time."

"It's nothing, Eli. I brought some help." Dad gestures to Lacey. She frowns at being put on the spot.

Elijah smiles her way, but only for a brief moment. "Well, if it ain't you! Last time I saw you you were just about yay-high." He demonstrated by holding out a hand beside his waist, and then laughed heartily. "It's nice to see you back. Stella will love seeing you again. Gosh, I remember when you two were attached at the hip."

"So...which of your daughters is missing?" Lacey asks.

To the side, Dad bites his lip, passing a glance between his daughter and Elijah. When Eli's eyes fall, Lacey knows she's said the wrong thing, and kicks the tip of her shoe into a faded line of yellow paint. Touchy subject, touchy subject. I am not good at the touchy subjects.

"Well, I'm sure you'll be able to catch up once we find her." Eli takes off at an accelerated pace. "We should probably get on with the search, since I don't think anyone else is coming. Everybody, head out!"

The collection of middle-aged individuals sets out through the mud and dirt, Lacey and her father lacking behind. "So enlighten me," she says, trying to navigate a tree root. "Why are we searching here? And not somewhere else?"

Dad makes sure they're far back enough so nobody can eavesdrop on their conversation, and then eases up a bit, traversing the dead wilderness with relative ease. "Stella went missing a few weeks ago. The police haven't really found anything. The Almeidas aren't taking it very well, Eli the worst. He's been setting up these searches all around Carrick. Trying to find something."

"Huh." Lacey pushes a branch away. "That sucks."

"It really does. And it's not just her. This other girl, Ro-Anne Foster, she went missing about two months ago, something like that. Just fourteen. It's fucked - excuse my language - but it really is. Her family's already given up, I think. Won't even mention her. I'm sorry you've gotta get here at such a bad time."

They continue in silence. Neither has anything to say and they can't exactly bring up happy memories. It feels immoral, like the only right thing to do is be quiet and have your eyes peeled, since that's what everyone else is doing. Admittedly, Lacey would much rather be back home, warming her wet feet by the heater and talking to Carol, or maybe heading to the convenience store and picking up a pack of yellow jellybeans. If they even have explicitly yellow jellybeans. Probably not. Since arriving, her expectations of Carrick have been decreasing at an alarming rate. And with these missing girls? Its reality is headed downhill, too.

A quick memory. Lacey brightens. "Oh! By the way, I made plans with Erie to hang out at eight, maybe. After dinner. Is that okay?"

"Erie?" he stops to think. "I remember you pushed that kid in a puddle because he called you fat back in kindergarten. Then you were inseparable. Which is beyond me. Kids are...strange."

"Yes, we are. He learned very fast that nobody messes with my chunk. Nothing wrong with it. Can I, though?"

"Fine. I guess that's okay. Eager to get away from me, huh?"

"No," she says goofily, shoving his arm. "But I think he's bringing his cat and I can't miss it."

Up ahead, Lacey squints; people are falling down, crouching and slinging themselves off a ledge. Dad shimmies up to the edge as well, and when he takes the short plunge to lower ground, he looks up expectantly at Lacey, cocking a brow. "Well? You coming or do you wanna wait there?"