Chapter 41
Sara
The winter people, Gertie calls us, though I myself am still living. But we exist outside the known world, on the fringe. And, truth be told, I feel I am little more than a phantom.
Gertie is still not able to speak, but will, on occasion, spell out words in my hand. If I close my eyes, she’ll come out of the shadows, sit by my side, and take my hand. Her fingers are as cold as icicles, and I cannot help cringing a little each time she touches me.
“H-U-N-G-R-Y,” she spells, and I tell her she needs to wait. “When it gets dark, I’ll go see what I can find.”
Sometimes her touch is so light I’m not sure she’s there at all.
We have made ourselves a home in the cave, the same network of caverns and tunnels I went to over two years ago now, when I first decided to bring Gertie back.
At first, we kept to the cave, only venturing out into the woods to hunt and gather water from the stream.
Gertie does not ever show herself in the day.
Only at night, when she moves in the shadows, a flash of pale skin, here and then gone.
It’s as though I have an imaginary friend who is with me all the time but seldom glimpsed.
As supplies dwindled, I began taking midnight trips into town, where everyone believes me dead.
It is quite something, to travel through town in the night hours, a living ghost. The people who see me say a prayer and close the curtains.
They lock their doors, paint hex signs over the front entry to keep me away.
And they’ve started leaving me offerings so that they will not suffer my wrath: jars of honey, coins, sacks of flour, even a small bottle of brandy once.
Oh, what power we dead have over the living!
I paid a visit to Lucius—I couldn’t help myself.
I let myself into his house just before dawn, stood by the side of his bed, and gently called his name until he awoke.
And when I saw how frightened he was, I told him I’d come back from the dead.
“You think I was mad when I was living? You know nothing of the madness of the dead. There is no bed to bind me to now, Doctor,” I whispered harshly in his ear.
Sometimes I walk clear out to Cranberry Meadow and sit atop Martin’s grave. I talk to him for hours, until the rising sun begins to color the sky in the east, telling him all that has happened, all I have become. Mostly, I tell him how very sorry I am.
Sometimes it is my own grave I visit, right beside Martin’s. How odd it is to see my name carved into stone: SARA HARRISON SHEA, BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER. Even stranger to know that it is Auntie’s bones buried beneath.
Skinning Auntie’s body was my own clever idea.
After Gertie was done with her, I knew we had to do something to hide what had happened—her body ravaged, her skin torn by nails and teeth, both like and unlike an animal attack.
I also hoped that when the body was found people would assume it was my own.
Auntie and I, though different in age, had the same slight build.
Stripped of skin and hair, of all the superficial differences, she and I were in many ways the same.
It was, truly, no more difficult than skinning a large animal, something I am practiced at—something Auntie herself taught me well. It was strange how easy it was, to see a human being as just meat, a job that needed to be done.
The rumor Auntie had heard was true: Gertie has gone on walking since spilling blood. I believe she will go on for all eternity.
The truth of it is, however, that she is but a mere shadow of the little girl she used to be. Sometimes I catch glimpses of my darling child trapped there, beneath the dull eyes of this creature whose body she inhabits.
If I could set her free, I would.
But the best I can do is to keep her safe, and keep the world safe from her. Indeed, from others like her.
As far as I know, she is the only one. But occasionally, someone will climb the hill, someone who has lost a husband or a child, someone who has somehow learned the secrets of sleepers, of the presence of a portal right here in West Hall.
It is almost always a woman, although there have been one or two men.
Sometimes my very presence is enough to scare her off, to make her change her mind.
Sometimes there is nothing I can do or say to dissuade her from entering the cave to try to bring her loved one back.
In these instances, I leave it to Gertie to take care of her.
It might seem cruel, to send someone in to her death. But all it takes is one look at the hollow, hungry eyes of the thing that once was my little girl to know there are worse things than death.
Far worse.