Page 17 of Stay Buried

I let out a squeal like a scared young girl and was immediately furious with myself for it.

Quickly regaining my composure, I squared my shoulders, raised the broom like a weapon, and crossed the room to stand by my uncle, ready to defend him. I’m skinny, but have spent my life in the company of boys. I know how to throw a punch, how to fight if I need to.

The knackerman now appeared to look through Thomas, his eyes blazing—the whites seemed to have yellowed further in the time since he’d pulled up to the tavern. He was gritting his teeth, his breath coming through them like a train. Thomas stood frozen, stunned. He raised his hands in surrender.

“Easy now,” I said, my voice low and soothing. It was the same voice, the same words, that Luther St. James had used just yesterday to settle his crazed mare, Shirley.

I set down the broom, took a step toward the knackerman.

His yellow glare moved to me and I was reminded of the way Shirley had looked at us just before charging, eyes blazing like little fires.

He had cut the inside of his forearm quite badly but was in such aworked-up state that he seemed not to notice the dark blood that was dripping to the floor. I was close enough to smell the blood, the coppery scent of it mixing with the sweetness—all of it bringing me back to the horses in the field with their torn-open bodies.

Slowly, carefully, I reached for the knackerman to help stanch the flow of blood. His skin was blazing hot to the touch, and blood flowed heavily now. “You need a bandage, possibly sutures,” I said.

He stood frozen, looked down at my hand on his arm, my long fingers pale against the blood dripping from under them. Then he jerked away from me, took a step toward Uncle Thomas.

“Do you know?” he asked, eyes blazing as he looked at Uncle Thomas. He was breathing fast and hard and started to cough once again, his whole body heaving, bloody mucus coming up out of his mouth, dribbling down into his beard. He staggered backward, resting against the wall. He closed his eyes, his chin going down to his chest as he struggled for breath.

“Know what, sir?” Thomas’s voice had an uncharacteristic strain.

The knackerman opened his eyes, threw back his head, and laughed, showing blocky teeth stained from tobacco and blood. Bloody sputum dribbled down the corners of his mouth. He pushed himself off from the wall, dove for Thomas. Thomas leapt to the side with a quickness that surprised me, leaving the big man to grab an armful of empty air, stumbling so badly I was sure he would fall. He steadied himself by grabbing hold of the cabinet with the smashed front, then, with a roar, pulled it forward, toppling it with a horrible crash—instruments, medicines, and supplies spilling out across the floor. The force of his effort was so great that he went down with it like a great tree felled, landing on the floor beside the cabinet, where he lay in a motionless heap, blood leaking from his arm, a soft groan escaping his lips.

EIGHTASHLEY

October 14, 2016

Gram had left the house to Ashley and Malcolm, split fifty-fifty. Gram’s attorney, Brian Reyes, read the will, the language cold and legal, as they sat in his neat office with dark wood paneling, the shelves stuffed full of heavy law books. Malcolm was beside her, turning back and forth in his swivel chair like a little boy who couldn’t sit still.

Gram’s funeral had been two weeks ago, but even after burying her, seeing the coffin lowered, Ashley couldn’t believe it was real. Gram’s lawyer had offered to meet with them sooner, but Ashley had put it off; it seemed like a final step that she hadn’t been ready to face.

She and Malcolm had started packing Gram’s clothing into cardboard boxes destined for the church rummage sale. Ashley had been hesitant to get rid of any of it: putting Gram’s shoes and dresses into a box meant she was really and truly gone, not coming back. But the truth was, it was just too painful to have Gram’s things filling every hook and hanger, her empty shoes on the mat by the front door. Was there anything more heartbreaking, really, than empty shoes molded to the feet of a loved one now gone?

Ashley struggled to concentrate as the lawyer explained that the house was paid off in full, taxes for the year taken care of. There was also a savings account Ashley hadn’t known about and some stocks, amounting to nearly thirty thousand dollars. That was to be divided equally between Ashley and Malcolm.

“Wow,” Mal said. He looked at Ashley. “You didn’t know about this?”

“No,” she admitted.

She found it odd. She and Gram had always lived so close to the bone.

Now here she was, being told she’d inherited the house, and some money she’d had no idea Gram had.

The room was too dark. Too stuffy. She felt like she couldn’t get enough air. The blinds on the window were closed and thin slivers of light illuminated specks of dust dancing in the air behind the desk. Ashley stared at them, squinting. They seemed to be pulling together almost, making a pattern.

“There’s more,” the lawyer said. “There’s also the matter of the property at 84 Main Street, Boone’s Ferry, Vermont.”

“What? What property?” Ashley’s head snapped up and something immediately caught her eye.

She watched a shape taking form in the glittering dust.

It was a person.

Ashley blinked.

There was the unmistakable outline of a person standing behind Brian Reyes.

“A four-bedroom residence with half an acre of land,” Brian continued, consulting the documents on his desk. “Tax appraisal is a little over three hundred thousand.” The words floated around her as her attention held on to the looming form.