13
Salem
Evisceration and Shadows
I t was dusk, and I was riding.
The trail was long and meandering, twisting and turning through the forested hills and down steep gullies. My lungs filled with cold air that tasted faintly salty from the ocean breeze.
It had been two days since I’d seen Rayne. She was in the manor, somewhere. I could feel her presence like a cold fog lingering around the house. But she didn’t show up in the dining room for meals, and I didn’t see her around the yard or in the halls.
Last night, I sat on my bed in complete silence, straining to hear anything from her room next door. I hated myself for my curiosity, hated that I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
But my heart skipped a beat when I heard her shower turn on or her bed springs creak. I listened to her feet pace softly around the room to the crooning hum of her music played at a low volume.
My heart was still an open wound; I knew better than to offer it up on a silver platter to be cut open again.
Skidding to a stop, I climbed off the bike for a moment to stretch my back. The pale blue sky was swiftly darkening, the chirping birds joined by singing crickets. The scent of rain was in the air.
I only had one more week in this beautiful place.
It didn’t feel nearly long enough. Going home meant telling the same sad story over and over again to sympathetic coworkers, friends, and family.
I’d have to establish some kind of running joke about being left at the altar, because I really hated pity, and would far rather laugh than admit how much it all hurt.
I’d eventually have to “get back out there” and dive back into the repulsive dating pool I thought I’d already escaped.
Maybe I should just get a dog.
Shivering as the wind picked up, I rubbed my hands over my bare arms and scolded myself for not bringing a jacket. So long as I was on the bike it was fine, but if I stood still too long, I was going to turn into a frozen-sweat popsicle.
But right as I was about to get on my bike, I saw something strange.
About twelve yards ahead, someone was staring at me from between the trees. My heart jolted with alarm, until I squinted my eyes and realized who it was.
“Oh my God—Martin?” Hand over my pounding heart, I took a step toward him.
I’d seen the old hunter at breakfast with George early that morning, laughing uproariously at his own jokes as he ate eggs and scones.
But now, the man’s expression was odd. He looked at me like he didn’t recognize me, as if in a daze.
“Miss Lockard,” he finally said, blinking rapidly before he rubbed his head. He had his rifle in one hand; the other was messily bandaged. “Have you, uh... you haven’t happened to see old George around, have you?”
I shook my head. His expression made me uneasy; he was wide-eyed and pale.
“Are you okay?” I said, taking another slow step toward him. There was an awful smell in the air, as if something putrid was rotting nearby. “Are you hurt?”
He clutched his obviously injured hand, but shook his head.
“No. No, I’m alright.” He kept looking around; behind, above, side to side.
He took off his glasses, tried to clean them with one hand on his shirt, but his hand shook and he dropped them to the ground.
As he squatted to pick them up, cursing, I suddenly noticed the source of the smell.
It was behind him.
The corpse of a deer lay in the tall grass. Its belly had been ripped open, its guts strewn about. Pools of blood soaked the dirt around it, buzzing flies swarming over the body. The open, glassy eyes stared at me.
The blood was still wet.
A sudden feeling of trepidation made a cold sweat break out on my back. “Martin, did you... how did...”
“That wasn’t me,” he said, jabbing his finger at the mangled deer. “I don’t hunt like that. No hunter worth his damn salt would...”
He bit his lower lip, kneading it between his teeth. My fingers were clenched tight, and I instinctively began to back away, toward my bike. Some primal instinct inside me was screaming, telling me to go.
“You ain’t seen old George around, have you?” he said again. His eyes were glassy.
“No.” Slowly, I got back on my bike, never taking my eyes off him. “I haven’t seen him. You should get back to the house, Martin. Do you want me to get help?”
“No, no, he’ll turn up.” His voice turned faint, almost dreamy as he stared up into the trees. “He’ll turn up.”
I shouldn’t have stayed out so late, but I wasn’t used to these early sunsets.
Riding back to the house in the dark was nothing short of terrifying, especially after my encounter with Martin.
I had a headlight on my bike, but its beam of light only made the ride more eerie.
It cast shadows between the trees, and in my peripheral vision, those shadows became faceless figures.
Raindrops were falling when I finally caught sight of the manor’s glow on the hilltop above me.
Unfortunately, I found myself on the backside of the property, gazing through an iron fence at the distant house.
I really didn’t want to spend even another mile on the trail, and I rode the fenceline until I found a place I could climb over and haul my bike with me.
A massive fallen tree provided me something to climb on. Tossing my bike over the fence with a grunt, I hauled myself over too, half expecting an alarm to sound.
All that stood between me and the manor’s warmth was a dark, open field, and a single lonely stone building.
Even in the dark, it was obviously dilapidated. An old shed or abandoned workshop, I guessed. The rain began to pour, and I took shelter beneath the roof’s overhang as I rummaged in my bag for my thin rain jacket.
Tap. Tap-tap.
I paid no attention at first, assuming all I could hear was the dripping rain.
Tap-tap. Scriee-ch!
The undeniable sound of sharp nails on glass set my every nerve on edge, and I whipped my head around. There was a window nearby, the old glass so dirty it was impossible to see through no matter how long I stared.
There was no movement. The sound had stopped.
Swallowing hard, I turned my bike’s light toward the window.
Through the filthy glass, all I could see was a large silhouette as it darted away from the light. There was clatter, a crash, and the rapid scuffle of nails on wood.
With a shuddering breath, I peeked around the front of the structure and spotted the door. Or at least, what had once been a door. The entrance had been completely boarded over.
“Ooh, nope. Nope, nope, nope.” Muttering to myself, I hurriedly got on my bike. My shoes slipped on the pedals and I almost couldn’t see a thing with the weather, but I didn’t care. Between Martin, the dead deer, and whatever the hell had made its home in that shed, I was thoroughly creeped out.