Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Rayna
The alarm blares at nine, pulling Dalton and me from a restless sleep.
To be fair, I don’t know if Dalton slept at all.
Each time I woke and turned to look at him, he was staring at the multitude of dead things in the room.
At least he knows what’s bothering him. I still can’t put my finger on what’s making me so uneasy.
It’s just a feeling. An intuition. And I should listen to it.
A thick perfume wafts beneath the door as I blink back the little bit of sleep I found overnight. The aroma of bacon, eggs, and rising dough shifts my stomach from a nervous twist to a roiling growl.
“How’d you sleep?” I ask Dalton.
“Sleep? What is this foreign concept?” he growls as he sits up and rubs his eyes. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll eat some breakfast to be polite, and then we’ll grab the squirrel and put this place behind us. We can get him fixed up somewhere a little less creepy.”
“It’s really saying something that this place is making both of us uncomfortable,” I say with a shiver.
We rise from bed, but we don’t bother dressing. We slept fully clothed. In the backs of our minds, I think we both recognized the very real possibility that we would need to run. This place just exudes that ominous feeling.
When we reach the door, I fully expect to find the damn thing locked, but we breathe a collective sigh of relief as it groans open with the slightest tug. Dalton leads the way as we climb the stairs and step into the kitchen.
The creepy feeling recedes as sunshine streams through the gauzy yellow curtains.
Light catches on a crystal vase in the window and casts a rainbow burst along the sill.
A smiling taxidermy racoon holds a wine bottle in a miniature canoe on the counter.
It’s all very quaint. Peaceful. Almost kitschy.
“Morning, you two,” Samuel says from the stove.
His hulking form hovers over a pan of scrambled eggs, his forearms flexing as he stirs the mixture.
“Breakfast is almost ready, and then you two can head into town to grab a room for the night. I’ve already spoken with the innkeeper, so she’s expecting you. ”
Dalton takes a seat at the small table near a window. “We appreciate it, Sam, but we talked about it, and I think it’s best we head on from here.”
“Samuel,” he says without dropping his smile, and I don’t miss the hidden right hook.
Neither does Dalton. His head rears back slightly, and he clears his throat. “My apologies, Samuel. But as I said, we have to keep moving.”
“Hate to hear it, but I understand. I sewed up the squirrel’s side already, but he’s unable to be moved for a few days. I can always ship him to—”
“No!” I scream. My legs nearly give out, so I sit in a chair beside Dalton before I collapse. “I mean, I can’t be away from him. And thinking about him in a tiny box, getting squished or forgotten . . .”
Dalton reaches over and places his hand on mine, then looks at Samuel. “Couldn’t you tell us how to properly handle him? I mean, he isn’t exactly in great shape, so I don’t see how we could fuck him up much more than he already is.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Samuel shovels the eggs onto the plates lining the counter, followed by a few strips of bacon, fluffy biscuits, and a pat of butter.
He slides the plates onto the table, then takes a seat beside Dalton.
“If he isn’t kept in the proper conditions as the skin sets, he could end up too brittle.
That crack in his side will be a splinter compared to the devastation of his entire hide crumbling to dust.”
“D-dust? I need water.” I lick my lips, but my mouth is a desert.
Dalton gives me a glare, probably internally panicking at the possibility that I’ll change my mind and say we’ll stay. He’s right to panic.
“Well . . . maybe we can stick around for forty-eight hours, but then we really—”
My loving boyfriend kicks me beneath the table. I get it. I do. But we’re talking about Van Gogh.
“Forty-eight hours should be just enough time for the hide to set.” Samuel’s smile returns as he slathers butter onto his biscuit. “Besides, we’ll be starting the Funeral Celebration tomorrow, and you wouldn’t want to miss that.”
Meanwhile, Dalton looks like he’s about to burst into flames.
I lean over my plate and try to eat. The food is delicious, but I can’t enjoy any of it. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being held hostage, that Samuel is dangling my squirrel above my head. And I still can’t figure out why . . .
When I finally push my plate away, Dalton stands from the table. He hasn’t even touched his food. “I guess we’ll head down to the inn now,” he says with a forced smile. At least he’s trying, I guess. “Thanks for the hospitality.”
“Of course.” Samuel dabs his full lips with a napkin and then rises to shake Dalton’s hand. “I’ll see you again, of course. I have your squirrel, don’t forget.”
“No, we haven’t forgotten.” Dalton shakes his hand—maybe a bit too aggressively.
We walk to the door with Samuel on our heels, but he doesn’t pass the threshold. As we nervously exit at a brisk walk, he just leans against the door and watches us.
He no longer smiles, however.
“Okay, I’m officially creeped the fuck out,” I say as soon as I close the car door.
Dalton shoves the keys into the ignition, cranks the car, and begins backing out. “Then please explain why you agreed to remain in this shithole for two more days.”
“Van Gogh—”
The car jerks to a stop at the end of the long driveway, and Dalton throws the shifter into park. “Rayna, I love you. I love every part of you, even the weird parts that are fucking scary. But that squirrel is going to get us killed!”
I have no argument, so I just sink into my seat and pout. Because he’s right. If it weren’t for my ridiculous attachment to an inanimate object, we could just leave.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Dalton sighs and puts the car in drive again. Once we’re on the road, he places his hand on my thigh and gives it a squeeze. “I know he’s important to you. I’m the one who’s sorry. It’s just . . . this place is wrong.”
“It’s not as if we can’t protect ourselves. I mean, remember who we are. We’re the Halloween Harvesters! We can’t let the assholes out-creep us.”
A house drifts by on our right. I stare at it as we pass, noting how abandoned it feels. The lawn is maintained, and a car sits in the driveway, but the property exudes a feeling of forgottenness.
“It feels almost like a ghost town, doesn’t it?” I say.
Dalton shivers. “I’m hoping that was just because we drove through at night, when everything was closed up for the evening. Maybe things will seem a little more lively in the daytime. Hell, maybe the next two days won’t even be that bad.”
I nod and try to swallow that uneasy feeling as we pass another eerie house. Once again, it looks lived in and cared for, but it’s almost like a show home. A set dressing.
But as we come into town, the uneasy feeling grows until it can’t be swallowed. It crawls up my throat and begs to be released in a shout. A warning. Something isn’t right, and for once, it’s not because of us.
The town appears, and we drive along the main street that cuts past the carousel.
That’s when I finally see the first townsperson.
An old woman sits in a metal folding chair at the entrance to the merry-go-round.
Her jaw moves as she chews something, her sagging jowls wiggling with every mastication.
A baggy brown sweater swallows her torso, and she clutches a taxidermy fox to her chest.
“Want to stop and take a spin?” Dalton asks. He’s joking, but I nod my head. “What? Bones, you can’t be serious.”
“I am. If we’re stuck here, we might as well explore.”
With a groan, he pulls into the parking lot. “You owe me so big for this.”
“Noted.”
As we climb out of the car, I feel almost naked without Van Gogh. This is the sort of adventure he would have loved. It’s also unfortunate that I’ve finally found people who love dead things as much as I do, yet they creep me out as much as they excite me. Is this how I make others feel?
I ask Dalton this question as we approach the fence surrounding the carousel. He stops, thinks it over, then turns to me.
“Yes, that’s exactly how you make me feel. You excite me, but you scare the living shit out of me too.”
I roll my eyes. “Noted.”
“Oh, look! We have visitors, Mr. Fox!” The woman points the fox’s head toward us so that he can “see” us. “Have you come to ride the Magic-Go-Round?”
“No, we’re just taking a walk for our health,” Dalton mutters, and I ram my elbow into his side.
“Yes,” I say to the woman. “May we take a turn on your beautiful carousel?”
She titters to herself—or maybe to Mr. Fox—before struggling to stand. She sets the fox on the worn metal chair and hobbles to the horses skewered through their shoulders by metal poles. Once she’s pulled herself onto the platform, she motions for us to join her.
“Just give me a moment to find the right horses for you, dear,” she says as she walks through the animals.
I run my hand along the back of what was once a glorious bay. Its head pulls inward as its legs stretch in a wild run. None of the horses wear a saddle, and they look so lifelike that it feels like I’m standing in a wild herd as God freezes time.
“I’m fine with this one,” I say as I pat the large bay’s stiff muzzle.
The old woman looks back at me, but her smile shifts to shock and dread. “Goodness, come away from that horse! He’s a real devil, that one. Much too wild for a young lady. I know just the horse for you, and I’ve worked the stables all my life, so I would be the one to know.”
I glance at Dalton. His eyes are wide, and his jaw hangs open, but he manages to shake his head in warning. Just play along, that look says.
So we do. We follow the woman through the horses as she tells us their names and their temperaments, and for the first time in my life, I’m able to see myself through someone else’s eyes. I am fucking weird.
“This one will do for you. Her name is Belle, and she’s a good-minded animal.
” The woman pats a palomino whose death pose is just to stand there for eternity and look bored.
She turns to the animal beside it and motions for Dalton to climb aboard.
“This is my mule, Dusty. If he gives you any trouble and doesn’t want to move, just give him a little squeeze and he’ll make tracks.
” She pats the creature’s ass and laughs.
We climb aboard our steeds as the woman teeters and totters to the controls in the machinery’s center.
Seconds later, organ music springs to life, and the carousel begins to turn.
The animals don’t rise and fall as we begin our first revolution, but the speed increase is enough to give me a thrill.
By the third turn, I’m clutching Belle’s mane as if my life depends on it.
“Jesus fuck!” Dalton screams. “You’d think this would be less dangerous than actual horseback riding!”
The woman cackles from inside the stationary center, and the music grows louder. Or maybe it just seems to grow louder because I’m already overstimulated. Just when I’m about to scream and throw myself from the ride, a calming touch lands on my thigh.
“How do I let you talk me into these messes?” Dalton pleads, but his touch is all warmth and security. He won’t let me run, but he won’t let me fall, either.
I close my eyes and press my forehead to the post running through the horse’s withers. After a few more agonizing moments of sheer hell, the ride finally slows to a stop. The woman hobbles over and helps us down, and I’ve never been more grateful to step away from a dead animal in all my life.
“Children ride this thing?” I ask as we stagger off the platform.
“Oh, they did. They used to ride it all the time.”
“Used to?” Dalton asks.
But the woman has already stumbled off the platform and wandered back to her chair. It appears she’s finished talking to us. She plucks up her fox, then sits and strokes its fur as she mumbles something to it.
“Well, this was fun,” I say. We gather ourselves as the spinning feeling recedes, and once we can see straight, we head toward the woman. “Could you at least tell us where we can find the inn?”
She doesn’t answer me with words. No, that would be too normal. Instead, she raises a gnarled finger and points to a road running through shadows. Oak trees guard both sides of the pavement like sentries.
“Should have figured it would be that road,” Dalton mutters.
I grab his hand and head for the car. Maybe we should make a little detour and destress before heading to our next objective.
Once we’re finally back in the safety of our vehicle, with locked doors and windows rolled up, I pull out our activity list and start looking through it. Dalton does a double take when he notices.
“You can’t be serious. Now isn’t the time for fun and games, bones. We are the creepiest people I know, so if we are getting creeped out, I think it’s time to leave. I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you, but we have got to get out of this town.”
He’s right. But I can’t leave Van Gogh.
“Forty-eight hours, Dalton. After that, I promise we’ll leave.”
He sighs and starts the car, and off to the inn we go.