Page 70 of Stay Buried

“I’m terribly fond of your wife, Tom. That’s why I’m here, telling you all of this. Because it’s been bothering me. I know I’ve got bigger worries—the whole town so sick, I’m sick. All this talk of the devil himself walking around in our midst. But it felt… well, it’s been bothering me, is all. Like a splinter left under the skin too long.”

“Well.” Thomas was silent for a moment, and when next he spoke, he was calm again. “I do appreciate your candor, Mrs. Albone.”

“And I’m relieved to hear that you want this baby very much,” Charlotte said. “I believe you’ll both be wonderful parents.” The old woman coughed again. “Did you know your wife came to me last year, asking for help in getting pregnant?”

“No,” he admitted. “I had no idea.”

“I gave her some red clover and raspberry tea, a tincture made from nettle, chasteberry, and black cohosh to strengthen her womb, and a fertility charm to amplify her own powers of motherhood. I’d say it worked, wouldn’t you?”

“I—” Uncle Thomas began, but stopped himself. I wasn’t sure if he meant to argue with her or agree with her.

“Keep a close eye on her,” the midwife said. “And if there’s a chance, any chance at all, send her away from this place before she gets ill.”

“I will,” he promised.

“Soon, Tom,” Charlotte said. There were footsteps, the old woman readying herself to leave, walking toward the door. I slipped away down the hall, catching Charlotte’s last words: “Before it’s too late.”

TWENTY-NINEASHLEY

October 18, 2016

The horse was coming. She could hear its footsteps, slow at first, clipping and clopping down the tiled floor of her apartment building, increasing to a trot, then an all-out run, hooves pounding, shattering the tile beneath them. She opened the door, and there it was waiting for her, a white horse with yellow eyes, frothy blood-specked foam around its mouth. And on its back sat her mother in her good camel-hair coat, her face a bloody mess, part of her skull exposed, broken, brain matter seeping out. Her mother opened her mouth to speak and the left half of her jaw came unhinged, hanging with bits of tissue from her cheek.

Ash, you need to listen.

He’s coming for you.

Ashley awoke in full panic mode, a scream stuck in her throat. It took several seconds to orient herself: she was not in her old med school apartment or even at home. She was in Room 1 of the Deer Run Motel in Boone’s Ferry.

Take a breath, she told herself.You’re okay.

Someone was knocking on her door, loud and persistent. A deep, hollow banging. She thought of the children’s story about the Big Bad Wolf:Little pig, little pig, let me in.

What time was it? She’d unplugged the bedside clock because of the sickly green light it gave off. She reached for her phone. Where was it?

Malcolm was right next door. She’d said good night to him around ten, promising that they’d open the trunk together in the morning before he left for Josephine’s. She’d heard his TV on as she was falling asleep: something loud with a lot of gunshots and car chases with revving engines and squealing tires.

Maybe it was Malcolm at the door? Coming by to say he couldn’t sleep and invite her out to smoke a joint?

Or maybe it was the woman from the office, meet-as-strangers-leave-as-friends Liz, to tell her that the water was out, or there was a fire, or their truck headlights were on. Or her husband, Jack, to warn them again:Might not be safe.

Or maybe, just maybe—it was the thing that lived in the woods.

Where the hell was her phone? She had no cell service or Wi-Fi, but at least she could check the time, use it as a flashlight. She groped hopelessly around the nightstand in the darkness, knocking the lamp over onto the floor with a crash.

Another three knocks in rapid succession; more like the pounding of a fist—or clomping of a hoof—on the outside of her door.

“Coming!” she managed, making her way to the door through the pitch-black motel room, smashing her knee on the edge of the desk.

“Shit!” she yelped as she hobbled right up to the door, put her hand on the cold metal knob.

There was no peephole, no window. Only the thin panel door that any old wolf worth his salt could blow in with one puff.

“Who is it?” she called, with a remarkably steady voice.

Nothing.

She put her ear against the door, but all she felt was her ownheartbeat pounding.