Page 78 of Stay Buried

“So what happened to him? Did the sickness finally kill him? Or was it like in the movies and he had to have his head cut off to stop him?”

She shook her head, sorry she’d shared the no-discernible-heartbeat part of the story. “That’s what sucks—there’s no way to know,” Ash admitted. “Gram tore the final pages out of the book.” She ran her fingers over the ragged bits of page that were left at the end, a few partial words here and there, but nothing she could make sense of.

“Okay,” Malcolm said. “The knackerman’s unmarked grave is withthe other victims from that same time period, in the cemetery.”

“In the final entries before the missing pages, she writes about how the townsfolk were trying to hunt him down. They blamed him for everyone getting sick, thought he was cursed or a demon or something.”

“So you think they might have killed him?” Malcolm asked.

“Maybe? Wouldn’t be the first or last time a superstition and fear of the unknown got someone killed.”

Mal rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “He can’t still be alive, right?”

Ash shook her head. “Come on, Mal. He was an adult before Gram was even born. He’d be way over a hundred years old.”

“But if he was a zombie…”

“Malcolm,” she said flatly, giving him a warning look.

“Okay, if you say so. Well, maybe it was, like, his ghost or something? That you saw?”

Ashley forced out a squeaky laugh that sounded all wrong. “It was no ghost, Malcolm. Ghosts don’t use real paint.” She held up her hand, displaying the traces of sticky red paint still on her fingertips.

He nodded. “I’ll see what more I can find out about the knackerman from Josephine today.” He looked at his watch. “Oh shit, I’ve gotta go.”

“I’m going to try to find Mini and talk to her, see what she can tell me about the creepy red horse paintings. Maybe go to the library and do a little research. I’ll stop by Josephine’s later and see if you need rescuing.”

“Yeah, I don’t want to be stuck there in old lady doll-land all day,” Mal said as he zipped up his jacket.

“Promise me you won’t bring up your… business idea?” Ash said.

“I won’t say a word about it,” he assured her. Then, with a wink, he added, “Though I may surreptitiously check out the kitchen and dining room to see if they’d work for a B&B.”

“Mal—”

He raised his hands in surrender. “I’ll be good, I swear. I won’t say anything. But it is a great idea, isn’t it? Can’t you just see it? Endicott House Bed-and-Breakfast. Comfortable lodgings and farm-to-table dining located in the heart of…” He considered which adjective to use. “PicturesqueBoone’s Ferry, Vermont. Leave the real world behind. Join us and feel like you’ve stepped back in time.”

THIRTY-TWOFRANKIE

March 15, 1919

We all gathered at first light outside of the home of David and Mercy Banks, where I’d lived from the ages of nine to thirteen. Strange to look at it now and think how little it felt like home.

They’d fashioned a harness out of rope and leather so the men could take turns pulling a toboggan loaded with bags containing clothing, food, and water. There were snowshoes for each member of the party. The ladies were given ski poles to help walk and balance.

“The snow will be deeper up on the mountain,” David said. He, Chauncey, and Harold, now a boy of fourteen, carried rifles and wore wool hunting clothes. The youngest boy, Stewart, was ten and also dressed in wool but carried no weapon.

The snow had stopped falling and was starting to melt under the weak sun, but there was still half a foot of it, and David was right—it would be deeper, and much harder going, on the mountain. To escape the valley, you needed to go up. The easiest and most direct way out was the one they were taking, over the East Ridge Road that began at the end of Main Street by Luther St. James’s farm and wound its wayup, then down again on the western face of the mountain, like a great snake.

Pearl was having trouble with her snowshoes. Her fingers were trembling, and she couldn’t get the buckles fastened.

“Let me help you,” I said, getting down on my knees and strapping Pearl’s leather boots into the snowshoes. The snowshoes were made from shaped ash and strips of rawhide with leather buckles. As I tightened the buckles, I wondered if this was one of the pairs the knackerman had made.

Pearl was wearing her father’s waxed coat with a hood, layered over her own wool coat.

“You’re ready,” I said, standing.

“Am I?” Pearl asked, eyes boring into mine. “I feel as though there’s something important I’m leaving behind.”