Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Rayna
The start to the day was a bit later than we wanted, but it couldn’t be helped.
After the incredible butt-plug sex, we slept like the dead.
If Samuel hadn’t started banging on the door at ten in the morning, we’d have missed our checkout time.
Thankfully, we made it, and after driving all day, we’ve finally crossed into Florida.
We turn onto a long stretch of dark road.
The car bumps along pavement that buckled years ago and has now fallen further into disrepair.
Despite the welcoming website that talks about the city’s rich history, it would appear they don’t exactly welcome tourism.
Not unless you plan to parachute in, I guess.
I sit in the passenger seat, clutching Van Gogh to my chest as the town sign comes into view. Oak Hollow. As soon as we pass the sign, the road smooths out like butter.
Turning in my seat, I look at Samuel. “What’s up with the road? Why is it so shitty out that way, then nice once you reach town?”
“Everything has kind of . . . shifted. A fire has burned under this land for the last fifty years and will probably burn long past our deaths.”
“Beneath us?” I ask.
“All the coal mines.”
Okay, I’m very invested in this creepy town now. A fire that burns beneath it? That’s the most metal thing I’ve ever heard of. My mind races with questions. Is the ground hotter? Is there smoke? Will we die from gases or something?
We pass through the town’s main street. It looks like something out of a movie, with quaint shop signs catching the moon’s glow. To look at this place without knowing what it is, you’d never suspect these people are death obsessed. But when you look a bit closer, it’s more than apparent.
“Is that a wind chime made of bones?” I ask as we drive past a massive house with a gorgeous wraparound porch.
“It is. My father made that for my mother as a wedding gift. The two spines belonged to thieves in a remote village in the . Father worked with the tribe, taking the pieces of the dead the tribe deemed unclean. We aren’t that superstitious.”
“That was your house?” My eyes can’t possibly get any wider. I never expected the dirty man we plucked from the side of the road would also live in a southern mansion.
Samuel nods. “Well, it’s my father’s house. He’s the former mayor of Oak Hollow. My brother holds that title now, along with funeral-director-slash-coroner. Mayor, coroner, funeral director—the three go hand in hand here.”
As we near the city’s center, the road opens up, and bright lights twirl in the distance.
In a green courtyard stands a carousel, but as the car creeps closer, I can see that the horses aren’t the fabricated versions I’m used to.
They’re covered in fur, frozen in various death poses, and they’re undoubtedly the real deal—functional taxidermy.
“Can people ride that, or is it an art installment?” I ask.
Samuel’s smile broadens. “Of course you can ride it. It’s open every day from ten to six, but they keep it open a little later during the celebration. The kids really get a kick out of it.”
“Kids?” Dalton blurts. “You people raise children around this?”
I swat his thigh to shut him up, because how fucking rude. “Why wouldn’t they raise kids here? Nothing wrong with a little death. Don’t be a judgmental asshole like that lady at the motel.”
“Speaking of her, I felt a bit bad about leaving without dropping off our keys. Hopefully that doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass. If I see a security fee on my card, I’m coming after you two.” Samuel lets out a laugh and motions for me to turn right on the next street.
The headlights catch on houses that spread further and further apart. Eventually, we’re driving through the countryside as we cut a path up a small mountain about three miles outside of the town proper. The road eventually becomes a dirt track that dead-ends at a small wooden house.
Samuel gathers his things and opens the back door to exit the car. He pauses. “I don’t live as lavishly as my father, but you two are welcome to stay the night. The Oak Hollow Inn doesn’t staff the desk past ten, so you’re out of luck there. I have a spare bedroom, so you’d have privacy.”
Before Dalton can say no, I smile and accept his offer. “We’d appreciate it. Maybe tomorrow you could take a closer look at Van Gogh?”
“It might take a few days, but I’ll comp your room at the Inn while you’re stuck waiting.”
Dalton scoffs, and I swat his arm.
“That’s fine,” I say. “Is the hole in his side really that bad, though?”
Samuel runs his hand through his hair and shakes his head. “No, it’s not that. The hole won’t take more than a few minutes to patch, but if you want him cleaned up and improved, he’ll need more time.”
I look down at Van Gogh. He might be a little crusty around the edges, but do I really want to change him? His raggedy appearance is part of his charm, after all.
“Maybe just fix the ear and the hole in his side. I don’t want him to be too different.” I lick my lips and hand him to Samuel.
With the squirrel clutched in one hand and his pack slung over his other shoulder, he exits the car, and we follow him to the wooden porch.
Another strange wind chime hangs from the railing, though this one appears to be made from various bacula.
Aged boards creak underfoot as we ascend the steps, and insects scream from the darkness.
“Creepy,” I whisper.
Samuel turns to me and smiles. “I know. Isn’t it glorious?”
I smile and turn to Dalton, hoping to see some excitement on his face, but he still seems to be processing the fact that we’ll be staying the night at Samuel’s house. I’ll just have to set his mind at ease once we’re behind closed doors.
It’s really too bad those closed doors appear to be behind basement stairs, as that’s where Samuel is currently leading us.
Dalton files behind him on the narrow staircase, and I tuck in close behind Dalton.
Eerie spaces don’t normally make me feel so uncomfortable, but something about this feels very . . . off.
A large metal door waits at the bottom of the stairs. Samuel pushes it open, but it doesn’t appear to lock, so that’s encouraging. At least we can’t get locked in.
But that also means we can’t lock anything out.
“The spare room is in the basement?” I ask. “I figured you would keep your shop down here.”
“The shop is through the woods. It’s larger than the house, actually. I wanted a detached workspace to avoid all the chemicals and such. Too much exposure is bad for the brain, you know.” He throws me a sly smile.
Once he’s through the doorway, he flicks a switch to the right, and dim overhead lights give us the gift of sight. The bulbs cast a yellow glow on everything, or maybe that’s just from the age of the decor.
A low wooden bed hugs the far wall, the foot huddled near the rustic stonework fireplace. Some sort of large brown fur covers the bed—probably buffalo, judging by the pile. Elk, deer, and other antlered ungulates line the walls. If I weren’t fighting off a bad vibe, I’d be in heaven.
“Did you . . . kill all of these animals yourself?” Dalton asks as he peers at the death masks. “If so, you’re quite the hunter.”
Samuel tips back his head with a laugh as he opens a wardrobe, revealing a television.
“No, I don’t kill animals for sport. The trophies were taken by my brother.
He enjoys the killing. I enjoy the art of preservation.
” He tosses a black remote onto the bed, then heads for the door.
“I have local channels, but not much else. The bathroom’s through that door”—he nods at a narrow doorway near the back of the room—”and I’ll prepare breakfast around nine.
If that isn’t early enough for you, you’re welcome to head to the inn, so long as it’s after seven. ”
“Nine is fine,” I say.
Samuel offers a final smile, then leaves us alone in the basement. I had originally planned to relieve Dalton’s worries, but now I’m starting to have some worries of my own.
I sit on the edge of the bed and run my hand along the rough fur. “Dalton,” I whisper, “I’m not so sure about this.”
Dalton’s hands drop to his sides, and he stares at me. “Now, bones? Now you aren’t so sure about this? Once we’re in the killer’s basement, deep in the fucking woods? Now you’re concerned?”
“Well . . . yes. Better late than never, though.”
He sighs and drops beside me on the bed. “Tomorrow, we get Van Gogh, injured or not, and we leave. Deal?”
I nibble my lip and nod. It’s probably for the best. Something really doesn’t sit right about this place, and I don’t want to find out why.