Page 114 of Stay Buried

“It’s unnatural, what he’s done!” It was Lawrence Owensworth, a fine carpenter who had built much of the cabinetry in the Endicott home, including in Uncle Thomas’s exam room. He was always so soft-spoken, to the point of shyness—I barely recognized this man shouting with rage.

“He rose from the dead to walk among the living, a demon in our midst,” Luther went on, like a preacher to his congregation, projecting his voice, turning to make eye contact with the crowd. “And he’s creating an army of demons to do his bidding: possessing our women, our neighbors and children—making them do ungodly things!”

“He bit and clawed Mrs. Stoddard and Emile,” added Michael Knapp. “Attacked them like a jackal. Who knows what he did to them once he called them into the woods to be with him.”

“A jackal! A hound of hell,” someone in the back of the barn shouted.

“Fought like a fiend when we caught him,” Lawrence said.“Scratching and gnashing his teeth, spitting and clawing like an animal. Like the devil he is.”

“Look at his eyes!” shouted someone. “Inhuman. The yellow eyes of a serpent.”

“Burn him!” came another voice, soon joined by a chorus. “Burn him!”

The knackerman interjected now, his voice guttural but clear.

“Are you not going to shoot me, Luther St. James? Just as you gunned down that poor woman in the woods?”

I was shocked by his lucidity—and by what he said.

“Is he talking about Clarice?” I demanded, turning to Luther.

Luther opened his mouth but said nothing.

The knackerman grinned, his mouth bloody, two front teeth broken and jagged. “I saw what you did. Put a bullet in her chest. And yet you say I’m the wicked one?” Bloody spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke.

“Shut your mouth, devil!” Luther ordered.

The knackerman continued, “How many have you kilt now? Half a dozen? More? Men and women?”

“Burn him!” came a call from the crowd. I couldn’t quite recognize the voice, but it belonged to a woman. “He’s a madman!”

The knackerman let out a braying laugh. “You think it’s I who’s mad? Take a good look at yourselves.”

“Don’t listen, he’s speaking with the devil’s tongue!” Bert Osbourne cried. I couldn’t help but recall that Bert was no more of a churchgoer than I was. “He’s been bewitching us, one by one!”

“Send him back to hell!” shouted Michael Knapp. He was wrapped in a blanket, looking sick and feverish, his eyes yellow. “Before he takes any more innocent souls with him!”

The knackerman thrashed and bucked in his chair, his face beet red, his right eye swollen shut, his ragged beard covered with mucus and blood. His one good eye was so yellow it seemed to be lit up and glowing, as if there were a fire burning deep within him.

“I’m the devil, all right. You called me forth, each and every one of you!”

“This is pure insanity,” Thomas said as he moved toward the knackerman, clearly intending to untie him.

I moved to help him. Despite the state he was in, it was evident that the knackerman knew where he was, who we were, what was happening.

Luther, still on the other side of the knackerman, aimed his rifle at Uncle Thomas. “Stop right there, Doc,” he warned.

My mouth went dry.

Uncle Thomas froze. I looked into Luther’s eyes and understood he was prepared to shoot. Although he did not have the cough, the fever or jaundice, he was quickly spreading a sickness of his own.

“Luther,” Thomas pleaded, “I know you’re frightened and angry, and you have every right to be, but you’re not seeing reason. Look at the poor fellow, will you? He’s a sick man, not a criminal. And he’s certainly not the devil. This nightmare has nothing to do with the devil, or with God himself, for that matter. It’s a contagion. No more supernatural than the Spanish flu.”

The knackerman smiled again. “Did your wife send you here to save me, Doctor?”

“My wife?” Uncle Thomas was taken aback.

“A good heart, she has,” the knackerman said, licking his lips. “Always seeing the best in people. Tell Maggie I’m sorry, won’t you?” he said.