Page 53 of Stay Buried

We stood out in the open and I could feel it: eyes watching us. I spun around, searching for some sign of life, of movement. My skin tingled, every hair raised:danger, my body warned,danger.

The men walked in circles, aiming their rifles at nothing. They felt it too.

“They’re here somewhere,” Luther whispered.

The fog moved in swirling drifts around us, muffling sound.

There was a simple cabin built from hand-hewn logs with an outhouse behind it. On the west side was a small stable, on the east side a large, three-sided pole barn. Just in front of the barn, a massive cast-iron vat hung by chains from a rough frame made of heavy wooden posts. Beneath it, the remnants of a fire.

I followed the men into the open barn, Luther leading, his rifle up, ready to shoot. Benjamin followed, moving with the slow and rigid gait of a man in pain. In the middle of the barn was a large, heavy table stained brown from years of blood, splatters of newer, crimson blood on top. Flies gathered there, bodies thick and shimmering green, feeding on the fresh gore.

A cowhide was stretched across the back wall, several raccoon and fox pelts nailed beside it; another pile of skins lay in a corner. On the left wall hung a row of tools—terrible-looking things: long knives and scrapers, saws for bone. The place smelled of rotten flesh, blood, of suffering. Bile rose in my throat and I pulled my scarf up over my nose to stifle the smell. There was a heap of bones on the floor: femurs and skulls, bits of gristle still clinging to them. To the left of this, flies buzzed around an iron kettle. I made the mistake of peering down into it: a pile of putrid flesh, mostly stringy bits of white fat, seemed to wiggle and writhe as though alive. But it wasn’t the flesh moving on its own: it was teeming with plump white maggots, feeding on the rancid meat.

The footprints in the snow led into the open barn, then out again and over to the horse stable. We all followed the tracks. The doors tothe stable were open, the stalls empty of livestock. The knackerman’s cart was still in town. The stable was dark, windowless. Luther found a lantern hanging and got it down, lit it, and carried it toward the back.

The stable was surprisingly tidy, hay bedding covering the dirt floor. Leather harnesses and brushes hung on the wall.

“Here!” Luther called. He was in the farthest stall at the end of the stable. There were sheepskins laid over the hay, a tangle of blankets on top. Still clutching the lantern, Luther leaned down, laid his open palm upon it.

“Still warm,” he said. There were bloodstains on the yellow-white wool. As I approached, I was sure I could smell the acrid and sweet scent the sickness gave off, as if it were trapped in the makeshift bed. Behind it was another smell, also faint but distinct: fresh blood, bowels—the smell of slaughter that had filled the open barn.

It was a strange place for a person to sleep, especially when the cabin was right across the yard. But there were clear indentations and warmth from bodies that had recently lain there.

It was more like a nest than a human bed.

A place for animals to sleep.

“My God,” Benjamin croaked as he pulled back a pile of hay in the corner of the stall, saw what was hidden under it. I didn’t fully comprehend what I was seeing at first, but understood it was where part of the odor was coming from. As Benjamin took the lantern from Luther and brought it closer, I tried to make sense of it: the blood and fur, torn flesh and shiny bone. Then I saw the horns and understood that it was the carcass of a goat. The creature had been ravaged, its flesh torn from its body, entrails pulled out and left in a heap like a slick messily coiled rope.

“What animal did this?” Benjamin asked, reeling backward.

“Coyote?” I suggested. “A pack of them perhaps.”

Luther leaned down, peered at the pulpy mass, and retrieved a long curved knife with a handle stained with blood. “Wasn’t an animal,” he said. “Hedid this. Recently, too. The poor creature is stillwarm, the blood flowing.”

Something stirred behind us, made a high-pitched keening sound.

Luther shouldered his rifle, spun around, finger on the trigger.

We all turned in unison with him.

The sound, a frantic squeal now, was coming from behind the closed door of the stall opposite us.

Then it stopped.

The stable was silent, all of us holding our breath, staring at the stall door.

Luther crept over, gun raised, and kicked open the door to the stall. Benjamin was behind him, holding the lantern to help illuminate whatever they might find.

I braced myself, imagining the knackerman, Emile, and Mrs. Stoddard there, crouched like animals, faces wet with blood, hands slippery with entrails as they fed on another goat.

Luther shook his head, barked out a nervous laugh. “Only a dog.”

Letting out the breath I’d been holding, I went over and saw a young dog with shaggy black fur cowering in the corner. It wore a wide leather collar—clearly the knackerman’s handiwork. I held out my hand, and the dog came closer, ears back, tail tucked between her legs.

I pulled out the biscuit my aunt had made me take when we left the house and tore off a bit, which the dog ate greedily. “You seem hungry, girl.” I fed her the rest. When it was gone, she licked my fingers clean. I tried to pet her, but she flinched and retreated, keeping her eyes on me.

“Where’s your master?” I asked her.