Page 105 of Stay Buried

“She was killed in that fire at the town hall two years ago,” Ashley said.

“Oh God,” said Mal. “Lorelei told us about the fire, but didn’t mention anyone dying.”

Josephine shook her head. “It was a terrible thing. And it broke poor Willy’s heart. To lose his wife like that. And of course you noticed his limp? He ran straight into that building and tried to save her. Fell through the floor. Injured his foot so badly it couldn’t be saved, burnsand smoke inhalation. Barely made it out alive.” She looked down at her plate. “Such a tragedy.”

Ashley looked right at her. “He told me it was the knackerman who started the fire. Who took his wife from him.”

The biscuit Malcolm had been holding crumbled in his hand, falling to his plate.

The old woman seemed to bristle for a moment, but then smiled warmly. “Willy’s a drinker, so you have to take everything he says with a grain of salt. And like I said yesterday, and like I told Malcolm this morning, the knackerman… it’s just a story people tell. Boone’s Ferry’s own version of the bogeyman, you could say.”

“I told her about the mark on your motel room door,” Malcolm said to Ash. “The creepy red horse. She said it’s just some locals messing with us.”

“Locals who take the stories, the myths, a little too seriously, I’m afraid,” Josephine went on. Ash thought of what Mini had told her: that Josephine herself told knackerman stories in church during the harvest celebration. She opened her mouth to ask Josephine about it, but closed it when she realized she’d have to reveal her source.

“We’ve been to his grave,” Ashley said instead. “People who exist only in stories don’t have actual graves.”

“Oh, he was a real man, once,” Josephine said. She dabbed at her mouth daintily with a cloth napkin. “An actual flesh-and-blood man. He lived in the hills just outside of town, in the years before the great flu. He was a bit of a hermit. Not from these parts. Ireland, I believe. And then, like now, the people of Boone’s Ferry didn’t think much of outsiders. But he stayed. He built a little cabin and he practiced his trade.”

Ashley nodded. “Butchering animals. Disposing of corpses. When a horse or cow or any animal that wasn’t able to be used for meat died, the knackerman was called.”

“That’s right, you’ve done your homework, dear!” Josephine said, looking impressed. “He also sold his leatherwork,” she continued.“Bags, moccasins, mittens, and coats. Most of the snowshoes people in town used were made by the knackerman. And if a horse was sick or lame, or couldn’t be trained, it was sent to the knackerman.”

“To kill?” Malcolm asked.

“Not if it could be helped. They say he had a way with animals. That he could make a lame horse well and teach it to walk again, that he could tame a wild horse.” Josephine looked out the kitchen window, eyes huge behind her thick, smudged glasses. “He had a gift. And he shared his gift with the people of the village, but still, they shunned him. The children whispered and ran away when they saw him coming. Adults avoided him, mocked him for living the way he did, for the strange way he spoke, for his preference for animals over people. But who can blame him, really, when he was treated like he was? I’d prefer the company of horses too. Wouldn’t you?” Her gaze locked on Ashley.

“Sure, of course. But then the horses in Boone’s Ferry got sick,” Ashley said. “Sick with a strange illness. They all died within a few days. The knackerman was sent for to take care of the bodies. Only, when he showed up, he was sick as well.”

“How do you know this?” Josephine asked, setting down her fork. “I thought your grandmother never talked about Boone’s Ferry?”

“We have a diary that belonged to Frankie O’Massey,” Malcolm told her. “We were just reading it this morning.”

Josephine’s eyes widened. “Diary? Where on earth did you find that?”

“Our grandmother had it,” Ashley said. “It was in a trunk with a bunch of other papers belonging to her father, some old photos and records of his medical practice.”

“Charlie had all this? Really? I had no idea.” She gave Ashley an excited smile. “What an unbelievable treasure!” she chortled. “I’d love to see them. Do you have it all with you?”

“Back at the motel,” Malcolm said, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin.

Josephine nodded. “Will you bring them by later? I can’t tell you how much it would mean to me. I grew up hearing stories about Frankie, and I always wished I could have met her.”

“Of course,” Ashley said. “You know, we didn’t come across Frankie’s grave in the cemetery. You’re pretty sure she died in the flu outbreak?”

“I believe so,” Josephine said. “But then again, some say she ran off to Boston or New York. No one knows for sure.”

She stood up, pushed her chair in. “I’ll show you what I do have, though,” she said. They followed her into the front room, packed with the little clothespin dolls. The old woman went to a set of shelves in the corner, picked up one of them: a figure in a man’s coat and tie but with feminine eyelashes and lips. “This is Frankie O’Massey,” she said, holding up the doll. Then she reached for two more of the little figures. She held them out to Ashley and Malcolm.

“It’s your great-grandfather and great-grandmother, Thomas and Margaret Endicott.”

The man wore a tiny felt hat and matching coat, a little tie. His mouth was slightly downturned, lips pale. The woman wore a blue dress, had brown hair and bright-blue painted eyes. It freaked Ashley out a little, holding these little people, thinking this was where she’d come from. She had this idea then, that they were all dolls—pawns in some great big game.

FORTY-THREEFRANKIE

March 15, 1919

The walk to the Stoddards’ was short, less than ten minutes, but this evening, it felt longer. The snow was melting and my feet slipped. It did not help that I was exhausted—mentally and physically. Everything felt fuzzy around the edges. I just wanted to get this over with: to go and pick out burial clothing for Benjamin and Clarice, then hurry home and lock the door behind me.