Page 89 of Stay Buried

Luther came forward, rifle in hand, rolled the dead man off my uncle and onto his back.

“Shall I shoot him again?” he asked. “Just to be sure?”

“I don’t think—” Uncle Thomas started to say, but Luther put the gun against Benjamin’s chest, right over his heart, and pulled the trigger once more.

THIRTY-FIVEASHLEY

October 18, 2016

Ashley walked through town from the cemetery to the bridge by the factory. It was a beautiful fall morning: the sun was shining and there was a cool breeze stirring the few leaves left on the trees. Scarecrows and jack-o’-lanterns peered at her from people’s porches. She mulled over all she’d learned from Mini in the cemetery, marveling that the whole town really seemed to be in the thrall of this legend.

She thought of Mini’s story that her mother had gotten the knackerman’s mark too. Was it painted on the very same motel room door? Had her mother come face-to-face with him, with the white bone mask with the empty black eyes?

It means you’ve been marked.

He’s coming for you.

She thought of the pocket watch that she’d recognized immediately from the description in Frankie’s diary—how had it ended up with whoever had marked Mini’s door?

Each question seemed to lead to more questions, branching into an ever-growing forest of the unknown.

She was hoping that this Willy character might be able to give her some answers.

She got to the bridge, made her way down the grassy slope toward the water. “Hello?” she called out.

No answer. She peered under the bridge and saw the camp, but no sign of the man.

“Anyone here?” she called as she moved closer.

There wasn’t much to the camp. A bedroll. A plastic tarp rolled up and bungee-corded together. A small firepit circled with rocks, with a little metal grate over it. There was a single clean saucepan and a metal cup with a spoon. A couple of empty cans—baked beans and ravioli—leaned against the fireplace.

“Willy?” Ashley called out, looking upriver. She walked a little ways, following a path along the river, but didn’t see anyone. She found a small clearing, and on the ground a fishing pole made from a stick, line tied through a hole drilled at the end and wound around the pole, a barbed hook at the end. She heard something stirring in the woods behind her and turned to see a man in a tattered brown jacket hurrying off.

“Willy?” she called. “Is that you? Please wait.” She trotted up behind him.

He turned back to look at her.

He was holding a rusty hatchet in his hands.

“My name is Ashley,” she said as she took a step back, raised her hands to show she meant no harm. “I was hoping we could talk.”

She recognized him from the tavern yesterday. That had indeed been him at the end of the bar, eating his special burger.

She guessed him to be in his forties but maybe younger—it was clear he’d done some hard living. His face was puffy, covered with a thick beard. Unkempt hair stuck out from under the knit cap he wore. His eyes were blue, and quite bloodshot. There was an old canvas fishing bag slung around his shoulder.

She could smell liquor on him from where she stood.

“What do you want?” he asked, looking around, gripping the hatchet tightly.

Willy seemed more unhinged than sad, Ashley thought. She was beginning to question her decision to come here alone.

“My name’s Ashley. We have a mutual friend, Mini. She told me where to find you.”

He eyed her suspiciously, then, in a low voice, said, “Follow me. It’s not safe to talk here.” He scuttled off with a pronounced limp, deeper into the woods.

Ashley paused. Was she crazy? Was following a drunk, hatchet-wielding, possibly disturbed man into the woods really the best idea?

Before she could talk herself out of it, she followed him.