I’m driving to the location of Heather Stohler's death in the middle of the winter. I found her last address on The Fashion Spot forum wedged between Calvin Klein ads, Vogue covers and memorial posts, like LHommeDeStyle’s pithy: “the good always die young.” I typed the address in Google Maps. A ramshackle apartment complex in Vincennes, Indiana popped up. I clicked the arrow and moved down the street. It’s next to a funeral home, a tattoo parlor. It’s surrounded by shabby homes and busted sedans. I imagined single moms toting semi-automatics and disgruntled children obsessed with Family Guy. I reread the TMZ article from 2008: “Reporters were called Sunday morning to the apartment model Heather Stohler shared with her boyfriend, Daniel Risley. When they got there, they found the unit up in flames. Both were rushed to the hospital where Stohler died later that day. Risley died on Tuesday. The fire appears to have been an accident.”

I’m driving, because one of my students passed away last week from an overdose. I’ve cried every day since the head of the English department pulled me in the hallway and whispered the news. I tried not to cry. I tried to withhold any emotion. I saw Alex the day before and called his name for a test using his dead name. I felt guilty, stained by the new mandate of the state to call a minor by their birth name unless otherwise granted by their guardian—first written and voted into law by Representative Michelle Davis. Alex looked at me with such melancholic eyes as he grabbed the test. He used to enter my class in a pink hijab with multi-colored clips, oddly obscuring their gender by the use of this religious garment—truly an experimental teenage gesture. He changed his name and pronouns the next year. We’d talk about hardcore music in the hallway; I once saw him at a show in the mosh pit sweaty, emboldened. 

Heather Stohler grew up outside my own childhood home. She went to a middle school just like mine. She had friends just like mine. I still think about my own self so many years ago in a Christian high school—awkwardly trying to fit the predominant mold of a suburban kid. They believed Aéropostale and American Eagle suitable brands for heavenly hopefuls. I often walked to my locker, listening to Ashlee Simpson's “Pieces of Me”—recommended by my best friend who dressed like Avril Lavigne underneath the prescribed uniform. Heather abandoned Indiana for New York City. She starred in Calvin Klein ads with Kate Moss. She appeared on the cover of Vogue Italia. She modeled for Miuccia Prada, Dries Van Noten, John Galliano. She found a way out of this Bible Belt mess. 

It hasn’t snowed yet, but it’s far below freezing. I crank the heat to its highest setting. I ask myself: Why did Heather return to Indiana? I pass a billboard of Jesus Christ on his knees pleading for his flesh and blood to repent. My dad described heaven as a sports bar. My mother explained it as a palace of unimaginable pleasure punctuated by Cracker Barrel décor and Brad Pitt lookalikes. I told them once when I was a teenager: “I hate this landscape of corn.” Another time I said, like every teenager: “I will never become you.” I often wonder: Why do I still live in Indiana? I tell myself:  It’s different now. I’ve grown up. I want to be near the dying. I think about my grandmother staring at the ceiling, speaking in mumble-jumble. I teach high school English in one of the ugliest cities in America. I ramble about Macbeth’s insidious behavior and scan the students sitting in their desks. I ask: What is the definition of evil?  Does it exist? What is it derived from? I listen to their concerns. I speak about witches, Macbeth’s violent tendencies. I chart the delusions pulling at the corners of the psyche—shadows yearning to fashion chaos and self-destruction. 

Last weekend, I drove to Camp Chesterfield near Anderson, Indiana. I never knew about this psychic center until I found a name in an exhibition catalog about Paranormal art. Francis McVey was an artist who painted faces in the lights, listened to spirits, depicted their messages. Her ashes are buried at Camp Chesterfield. It is one of the largest Spiritualist communities in the nation. I entered their gateway and found the bookstore. A hippie woman leaned against the counter reading a book about angels. I asked, “How do I meet a medium?” She rolled her eyes. I walked around the store, picking up books, pretending to read, and occasionally clearing my throat, until she dropped her book and said,  “Follow the concrete path to the church and have a nice day.” I should be more direct, but instead, and I am generally like this, I leaned into my awkwardness. I thanked her and left. I followed the path, passing an enshrined cemetery, a labyrinth, circular tables with wooden chairs with names on their backs. I approached the limestone church. The doors wide, dark within. I entered regardless. A woman with frizzy hair was sitting at a pew. 

“What do you want?” she asked. 

“I want to commune with the dead.”

“We are labeled frauds by the United States government.” 

“Okay,” I said. 

“You don’t care?” 

“No…” 

“Follow me.”

I liked her face. It reminded me of a cross between Nicole Kidman and Aileen Wuornos. The woman touched my hand and said, “Listen.” It didn’t take long. I can’t write the ineffable, but I’ll try. My breath slowed. My body no longer felt solid. The woman no longer a physical entity—her words like liquid running. I thought I heard a voice. Not this woman. Not my past student. Her name: Heather Stohler. She said, “Go where I am.” I didn’t like it. It didn’t feel right. When the room realigned, the woman said, “No.” She warned me. I didn’t know a Heather Stohler. After I left, I searched her name, scrolled through the photos, watched the YouTube runway clips, read the headlines, bought the magazines. In Vogue, they labeled her as "The Spiritualist" wearing Donna Karan in a series called “Cult of Personality.” It's 1997. Everyone's celebrating individuality. The fashion uniform is dead. Personal style reigns supreme. Every model is photographed by Steven Meisel.

A skunk crawls across the highway. In the distance, there’s a bundle of lights from a factory. I take the exit for Vincennes. I stop at a gas station to use the restroom. The fluorescent canopy has a singular aura. Inside, the attendant speaks to a woman with a slushie while a nu metal anthem plays. The girl says, “If I had a million dollars, I’d sleep for a million years.” I use the restroom and avert my reflection in the mirror. I leave without buying anything, not unusual, but I imagine buying a beer—a wet label against my palm.

I creep into the desolate streets of Vincennes. I'm listening to “Pieces of Me.” I pass a cop cruising way below the speed limit. I’ve been writing letters to strangers on my prep period and ripping them up before class begins. I remember one: “Dear____, I hate your guts, but I miss your eyes above your mask and the smell of your kitchen.”

I park across the street from the apartment complex. I take a photo with my phone. It isn’t like the Google Maps image. I cross the street and walk between a blue truck and Pontiac Grand Prix. I look for burn marks, but I find nothing. There’s a light in a window—no curtains. I edge closer. No one is inside. The walls are the wood panels of my childhood. There’s a plastic vodka bottle on a table. A pile of clothes in the corner. A clean ashtray. A stack of CDs. I back away from this pathetic scene. Before I turn my back forever, I notice movement. A girl enters the living room. Her back is turned to me. She wears a long black shirt and baggy jeans with a chain. She sips orange juice from a glass mug. It doesn’t take long—she slowly looks over her shoulder. Her hair obscures her face. I freeze. I’m about to leave until she motions me inside with a quick wave. I enter the apartment. The girl faces the corner of the room. She says, “Don’t ask me for my name.” 

“Hi,” I reply. My hands are sweaty. 

“Is there anyone else here?” I ask. 

“No,” she says. “Follow me.” 

She walks down a hallway. She leads me to a kitchen. It’s a wreck. There’s trash everywhere. Paper plates, to-go containers, dried noodles, sweet and sour dripping. There is no evidence of a fire. No charred tile. No ceiling stain. 

The girl says, “This way.” She opens a door. She bites her nails.

  I nervously ask her as if she was one of my students: “What’s your favorite band?”

“I don’t listen to bands.” She flips on a light. It’s a staircase descending into a cavernous basement. This is like every horror movie. Except, this isn’t a horror movie. This is my life. The staircase is the color of charcoal. I think about the woman at Camp Chesterfield. I feel her creeping words. I take one step at a time. She reaches the concrete slab, pulls a string, and a light pops on. 

“Look,” she says, pointing to the walls. They’re covered in soot. The basement is not renovated. 

“Over there,” she says, pointing to a corner past my shoulder. “There’s a hole in the drywall.” 

"Okay?”

"Walk through it,” she says, staring at me for the first time. I recognize her face. I shut my eyes. I imagine the entire state of Indiana wiped off the face of the planet. Like a God in the Old Testament unleashing a wrath hitherto unseen. 

“Go ahead,” she says. I stop thinking and walk forward. I'm afraid, but I step into the hole. 

I’m walking fast listening to D.R.L.N. I cross a yard, sneak between two houses, and climb over a fence, and enter the CVS parking lot. There’s an idle car. I open the passenger door and disappear. It smells like pot and candy. The dealer is listening to Korn. I exit the car after the exchange. I receive a text: “alex where are you.” I return to my bedroom and unwrap the dope and prepare it on my bedside table. I snort it with a crumpled piece of paper. I fall back. I convulse until I lose consciousness. I awake to a God laughing, a naked earth, a flat nothing punctuated by the undertow of a demon, the spit of an angel. I look at Heather. She grabs my hands and says, “I will guide you through this land of agony.” We take our first steps together.