Stay Buried

The Knackerman

Just after midnight and he moves through the woods, steps sure and quiet, breathing as still as he can make it. A thick early-season snow has begun to fall. The woods are soundless. The owls and mice and creatures of the night scatter when they sense his approach.

Even the wind stops for him.

He’s dressed in a long leather coat, crudely stitched together in a patchwork of scraps: dark, greasy leather, some pieces still covered in fur. He wears a mask made of bone that glows white in the darkness. He stinks of musky animal hide, rusted metal, something vaguely rotten.

He steps lightly, eyes forward, looking through the holes of the mask, knife clutched in his gloved hand.

The old carbon-steel blade, oiled and honed, the wood stained with centuries-old blood; blood from other times, other continents even.

Animal and human. No difference really. Blood is blood.

Suffering is suffering. It’s all sacrifice. It’s all for him.

He is the knackerman. He is the resurrection and the life. He is the beginning and the end.

And now he walks with the purpose of a man fulfilling his destiny.

He steps out of the dark confines of the woods and into the road; the soles of his boots make a hollow clomping sound, not unlike a horse’s hooves, through the snow, down onto the pavement.

He could have ridden his horse tonight, but he chose to come on foot, to stretch his legs, to take the long walk from the hill into town on his own.

In the past, the long-ago past, they would know the knackerman was coming by the galloping of his horse, the rumble of wagon wheels, the metal-on-metal clatter and clank of his knives, saws, and cleavers. They would know he was coming by the tangy stench of blood and rotten meat.

He crosses the desolate road and approaches the dark motel. No traffic out tonight. No lights on anywhere. Not even the soft blue glow of a television. They all sleep while he rules the nighttime world.

His boots hit the snow-covered gravel of the driveway as he passes under the dark sign: DEER RUN MOTEL, VACANCY.

Run, deer, run, he thinks as he makes his way to the door of Room 1. He knows she’s in there, sleeping, blissfully unaware of his presence. A doe in her den. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

“Foolish doe,” he says out loud because he likes the sound of the words, the feel of them on his tongue.

Her car is parked out front, the only one in the lot. A beat-to-shit silver Subaru.

He reaches into the leather bag he wears strapped to his body under his coat, takes out the little bottle of red paint and the brush.

Then he paints the mark on the door of her motel room; his mark: a rough outline of a horse’s head with a flowing mane and one wild, staring eye, the red paint wet and thick as coagulated blood.

He tucks away the paint and brush, takes hold of the knife once more, and raps on the door with the handle.

Two sharp, hard knocks. Loud enough to wake the dead, he thinks, smiling.

He hears her get up, stumble out of bed. The light flickers on.

“Who’s there?” she calls.

She’s right behind the door now, he can almost feel the heat of her pressed against it, can almost feel her heart beating, quick and fearful.

Come on, he wills her, gripping the knife tighter. Open the door, little doe. I dare you.