Page 81 of Forever Dead

His wife had gone before him, and their only son, Peter, had moved to England long enough ago that his Kentucky accent had softened whenever he called. Peter had no interest in returning to run the property, but he could not quite bring himself to sell it either.

So, Harold kept an eye on the place. It had started as a favor. Check the pipes after a freeze. Make sure the roof had not lost shingles after a storm. Run the taps every couple of weeks. Chase teenagers out of the barn when word got around that an empty farmhouse was available for drinking.

Then Peter discovered Airbnb.

He had called Harold one evening with what he described as a business proposition.

“People will pay to stay there.”

“Why?”

“For the experience.”

“What experience?”

“An authentic Kentucky farmhouse.”

Harold had laughed for nearly a minute.

The listing had gone up anyway. Peter handled the money from England. Harold changed bedding, checked the propane, and made sure guests did not set fire to anything. The booking calendar was public, which at least meant Harold could check online and know when somebody was due. Every few months, some couple from Louisville or Cincinnati arrived wanting two nights of quiet, old floorboards and photographs beside the barn.

Peter had called the listing an Authentic Farmhouse Experience, capital letters and all. Harold had objected to the word authentic once Peter installed a new washer, Wi-Fi and a television big enough to cover half the sitting-room wall.

Peter had laughed down the phone. “People still want hot water, Harold.”

“Then they want a farmhouse with conveniences.”

“That doesn’t sell as well.”

The guests were mostly harmless. One woman had asked where she could milk a cow. A man from Chicago had complained that the rooster on the neighboring property started too early. Harold had learned to nod, fix whatever needed fixing and leave them to enjoy the countryside they had paid to temporarily discover.

The quiet weeks suited him better. When the house was empty, it belonged to the Tullys again.

Nobody was staying there that week, which was why the open front door caught Harold’s attention immediately.

He was already past the entrance when the detail registered. Harold lifted his foot from the accelerator, and the pickup slowed. In the rearview mirror, the Tully driveway receded behind him.

He frowned. “Goddamned kids breaking in again. Ain’t they got nothin’ better to do?”

Harold braked, reversed along the empty road, and turned into the drive.

Morning had only just begun to lift the darkness from the fields. A gray-blue light lay across the pasture, and low mist clung to the hollows beside the fence line. The trees around the house still carried enough leaves to hide most of the upper windows from the road. Wind moved softly through them, bringing down the occasional leaf.

Harold drove up to the house and parked beside the porch. The front door stood open about a foot, and that bothered him more at close range.

Teenagers usually broke a window or forced the back lock, then left obvious proof of their visit. Beer cans. Cigarette ends. Mud across the floors. Once, somebody had dragged an old mattress from an upstairs bedroom into the yard and tried to burn it.

The door frame appeared intact.

Harold killed the engine and sat for a moment, listening. Nothing came from the house.

He opened the truck door and stepped out. Cold morning air reached through his work jacket as Harold walked around to the bed of the pickup and lifted the vinyl cover near the cab.

An old Louisville Slugger lay beneath a coil of rope and a rusted tow chain. Beside it rested a twelve-gauge shotgun in a worn canvas sleeve.

Harold paused. A grin pulled at his mouth.

“Not your time, Old Bessy.”