Chapter 14
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Jack followed Boris to the parking lot, heart in his throat. A light rain misted down around them. The streetlamps reflected on the asphalt.
A part of him worried that Boris might just hit him over the head with the shovel and call it a night. But Boris was silent, reserved when they met in the lobby and only said, “You coming?” when Jack hesitated.
Jack scrambled after him.
Boris’s car was ancient and dented. One headlight looked like it had been bashed by a baseball bat. A crack reached from one end of the windshield to the other like a creeping vine. The passenger seat headrest was mummified in duct tape. Jack doubted there were any seatbelts.
Scraping noises. Swearing. Then the driver’s side door swung open, and the pin tumblers clicked. Cautiously, Jack pulled the door.
A beer can rolled out.
Ugh. Next time, he’d ask someone else for help.
“We doing this, or not?” Boris grunted. Something crunched as he sat down.
“Uh, we’re doing it,” said Jack, sliding onto the vinyl seat, trying not to worry about the origins of the stains, and whether or not they might be sticky.
“Good,” said Boris. The engine wailed to life, and they screeched out of the parking lot.
The trailhead was only a couple of miles away, but the minutes ticked on sluggishly. Trees blurred past, barely illuminated by the streetlamps. A thick, white mist obscured the lines on the road, crawled beneath the cars parked along the sidewalk.
The radio station kept going staticky, rock music and weather updates overlapping. Boris banged on the dashboard. The static intensified into something that sounded like microphone feedback. Jack reached over and turned it off just as Boris prepared to punch the dash again.
The sounds of the rain and road accompanied them into the woods, where the streets wound tightly and the fog grew thicker.
“So, uh,” said Jack, trying to disguise his burning curiosity as polite interest. “You’re cursed?”
Boris’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Something like that. I dunno.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Dreams,” said Boris. “Weird fucking dreams.”
“What kind of—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh.” Jack closed his mouth and resumed staring out the window.
Dreams? Boris thought he was cursed because of his dreams? What the fuck was he dreaming about?
Jack could admit that he wasn’t prone to nightmares.
He’d had plenty of strange, vivid dreams that left him uncomfortable upon waking, accompanied by the odd, prickling sensation that someone was watching him.
The rest of the day was always tinged with half-faded memories of staring eyes and open mouths and putrid sores.
But to go so far as to help someone dig up a body because of them?
When Boris said he was cursed, he sounded like he actually meant it. Unlike everything else that came out of his mouth.
Maybe, just maybe, this was legitimate.
Before Jack could ask, Boris pulled into the parking lot at the trailhead.
“Hope you’re right about this,” he said, wrenching the trunk open and rifling between crumpled blankets, oil-stained towels, and what appeared to be a dog’s water dish until he found a rusty, dirt-encrusted shovel. Oil streaked across the handle, down the shaft.
“Me, too,” said Jack.
“You’re doing the digging.” Boris flipped the shovel, caught it by the spade, and extended the handle to Jack. “I hope you know that.”
“I assumed as much.” Jack snatched the shovel and started into the forest. Treetops wavered in the breeze. Aspens bright and slender as skeletons peered between the firs.
Were there cougars out here? Bears? Jack wasn’t so sure he wanted to know.
The beam of Boris’s flashlight flickered. Jack thought it would die, but it held strong as they followed the path to the broken bushes.
“Through here,” said Jack, gesturing.
Boris grunted. “Looks dark.”
“Well, yeah. It’s the woods.”
“I know that. Don’t talk down to me.”
“Sorry,” said Jack, and he meant it. Boris was the closest thing to a friend he had out here. “I’m just nervous.”
“About what? This was your idea.”
“I don’t know. Bears. Witches. Cops.”
Boris snorted a laugh. “You clearly don’t know a damn thing about witches, then.”
“I guess not,” said Jack, squinting between the trees.
“They aren’t gonna do anything to you. Just gonna read tarot under the moonlight and maybe curse the patriarchy.”
“Oh?” Jack waggled his eyebrows. “You sound like you have experience with this.”
Boris shrugged. “I might’ve dabbled.”
“Seriously?” Jack turned to stare at him. “You would just admit that to any guy in the woods with a shovel?”
Boris looked him up and down, and smirked. “Like you’re gonna do anything about it.”
“I’ve got a shovel,” said Jack, arching a brow.
“Yeah, and skinny arms.” Boris crossed his arms. “Even with a shovel, I could take you out.”
“Wanna bet?”
For a moment, Boris seemed to actually consider this, glancing between Jack and the depths of the woods. The ocean air crashed over them. With it came the scent of salt and pine. “Nah. Let’s see this body of yours.”
“It’s not my body,” Jack grumbled.
“You found it. It’s yours.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.” Jack took a deep breath and stepped off the trail.
If he’d disliked going off the path during the day, he liked it even less at night.
Crickets chirped. Woodland creatures rustled high in the branches.
Something crashed through the underbrush, and Boris startled.
Jack raised the shovel, poised to strike, but nothing charged at them, so he quickly lowered it, feeling foolish.
Boris stayed close. “Should’ve brought a gun,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Do you have a gun?”
“No. But I’d feel better if we did.”
“Well, I don’t have one either,” said Jack, pausing to examine the broken branches. Were they part of the trail he’d been following? Or had the spooked animal done this? Beckoning to Boris, he said, “Can I see the flashlight?”
“Only if you trade me for the shovel,” said Boris. “I’m not standing here without a weapon.”
“Fine,” said Jack, offering him the handle. Boris passed him the flashlight.
After a moment’s assessment, Jack concluded that they were probably on the right track and resumed following the broken branches.
“There aren’t, like, bears or anything around here, are there?”
“Cougars,” said Boris, swinging the shovel over his shoulder. “Bats. Raccoons. Sharks. There’s not supposed to be any bears, but you never know.”
“Bats? They aren’t so bad.”
“Bats have rabies,” said Boris, rolling his eyes. “You don’t want to fuck with that.”
“Right, fuck. I forgot about rabies.” Even stuck in a time loop, Jack didn’t want to risk that.
“No shit,” said Boris, nearly crashing into Jack as he drew to a halt.
“It’s right here,” he said, shining the light on the trunk of the oak, then down to the earth, where the mound rested.
“Shit,” said Boris, stepping right up to the mound like it was of no more significance than a carnival ride. “Yeah, um.” His voice was thick with shock. “I think you might be right. Fuck.” He scrubbed a hand down his face and looked from the mound to Jack. “I honestly thought you were crazy.”
Scowling, Jack said, “Yeah, everyone thinks that.”
With a snort, Boris said, “You got the crazy eyes, man. And you never shut up once you get started.” At Jack’s expression, he shrugged his shoulders. “What? It’s true.”
“You’re one to judge.”
“Hey, I got nothing else to do.”
“Guess not,” said Jack, holding out a hand for the shovel.
Boris stared at him, eyes wide, mouth open in a combination of awe and disgust. “You’re really gonna do it?”
“I thought that was why we were here,” said Jack slowly. Was Boris about to chicken out? Maybe it was crazier to dig up a body than he thought. But he had to know what was buried here. Had to find out if it would end this loop, or not.
If it was a body, there was surely more he could do. Some way he could track down the killer. Or convince the police to. There had to be something.
Boris shuddered. “You’re right. Here,” he said, handing the shovel to Jack in exchange for the light.
“Thanks,” said Jack. “Just… just hold that there, alright?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know what I’m here for.” He exhaled loudly. “I can’t believe you’re really gonna do this.”
“I have to.”
“Yeah, the curse, I know. Hey, we’re technically on the outskirts of town,” said Boris as Jack drove the spade into the ground. “And you didn’t disappear on me.”
“I told you I’d been out here before,” Jack reminded him, already panting as he used his foot to force the steel deeper into the dirt. There was little resistance.
This was a fresh grave.
For all that his father might’ve claimed that Jack had never done a hard day’s work in his life, he’d spent enough time helping his mother in the garden to know that it wasn’t usually so easy to dig a hole.
Still, the work was exhausting. He was sweaty after only a few minutes and regretted wearing his suit. With every inch that he uncovered, he braced, preparing for the impact of metal on flesh.
There was no good way around it, he reasoned. If he knew the grave was shallow, he’d dig with his hands, but—
“Stop,” said Boris suddenly, a wild panic in his eyes. “Stop. Fuck, is that what I think it is?” He came closer, shining the light into the hole, where roots protruded from the earth.
No, not roots, Jack realized, stomach roiling. Fingers.