I tried to tell her to stop, to tell her I would help her, but I couldn’t move. My feet wouldn’t or couldn’t listen to me. I shouted, but only the faintest of muffled sound came out, a distant echo even in my own head.

  The woman rose off the ground. I wasn’t sure if she levitated or was lifted by some unseen force. She peered down to her left and right, but she didn’t seem concerned.

  The shards vibrated, then doubled in size. The matte black rocks reflected what little sun there was as the light hit the smooth sides. One of the crystals pierced the bottom of her foot and broke through the top.

  The black earth moved. The very ground turned and rotated. As the earth wheeled with increasing speed, she was lowered into the rocks. The shards hit her feet, digging into her skin and bone.

  Her eyes became aware of the pain her body was experiencing, but she remained quiet and still.

  The sharp teeth made easy work of her lower legs. The rocks gnawed at her knees, but she didn’t cry out. The gentle smile turned to an emotionless stare as the splinters scraped at her supple skin, cutting and tearing the flesh into scarlet ribbons.

  She lowered her eyes to mine and our gazes locked. I tried to look away, but she had some sort of control over me. She started to move her mouth, tried to speak to me, but the beating of the rocks stopped her.

  I wasn’t affected by the shards. Somehow, I was immune. What was she going to say?

  Her lower abdominal muscles were already gone. The ground picked up momentum like black forks it ripped and pulled at her. Her bits and pieces spattered my legs and chest.

  Finally, one of her eyes glistened and a tear dropped. What was left of her dress was torn off from the remains of her body. Her face strained as her eyes turned red. She looked like she was about to scream, an eruption was only moments away.

  I could feel that scream building in us both. It was more than I could handle. Stop it! Stop it! I tried to scream.

  Banners of her flesh sprayed my body. I couldn’t turn. I couldn’t get away.

  Knock. Knock.

  Soon she would be gone, eaten away.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  I twitched.

  Knocking. Someone was knocking.

  Wake up, Matt. Wake up.

  She opened her mouth.

  “Say it!” I screamed. “What? What is it?”

  My mind called, trying to wake me.

  We stood staring at each other, but I was being pulled away. I could see her, and I could see us both looking at each other. The distance continued to grow.

  The knocks turned to banging. The further I was taken from her, the more relief I felt. My sorrow lessened. I would forget her when I woke.

  “Faster. Wake up, Matt. Wake up.”

  The banging grew more determined.

  The world she and I inhabited dripped away.

  She reached out to me with her only arm, but it was too late. She was only a shade.

  Like a cannon, she shot across whatever plain we were on. She moved so fast the remaining flesh blew from her bones. In an instant she was skull to nose with me.

  She gripped my face with her blood-stained fingers and hissed, “We want you to see us.”

  13

  Sunday, November 1, 1964

  Sunrise 6:57 am. Sunset 5:36 pm.

  * * *

  I shot up in bed, flinging my arms out in terror against the darkness, pushing away the bits of flesh that clung to me.

  I had no light to guide me, no air; it was stifling. Moisture covered my skin. In a panic, I swiped at my arms and legs. It could have been water, sweat, urine, her blood, my blood, bits of her body. I tumbled and fell, landing on a hard, firm surface.

  My hands spread out on the ground and searched for answers to where I was.

  The ground was hardwood floor.

  I panicked as I got to my knees and clawed at the darkness until I found a wall. I stood, sliding my arms against the surface. "Where is the fucking—”

  Click.

  The light came on.

  I gasped, taking in the room.

  I was in a strange place, but at least I was alone.

  Middwood. Franklin. A house. No windows, my mind flipped through the images of the last day.

  It was just a dream. I exhaled and collapsed against the wall, with my chest heaving. As rough as last night had been, I’d woken up in stranger places in the last month.

  My hair was soaked. I leaned over and pushed, cracking open the bedroom door. The change in air temperature was drastic.

  "We want you to see us.”

  The words from the nightmare that woke me were still digging through my head, spoken to me by a mutilated woman who was ground down like a piece of wood.

  What and how much had I taken the night before? I couldn't remember.

  I grabbed the doorknob and climbed to my feet.

  The amplified bangs continued below.

  I wanted to scream out and let my visitor know they should get the fuck off my porch, but even the thought of yelling made me wince.

  "Mr. Christian? Are you there?” Franklin's muffled voice came from downstairs.

  Fitting for a Sunday, I found myself praying for a better day. I mumbled to myself, feigning sincerity and rubbing morning crust from my eyelashes. "Is that you, Franklin? I'm sorry. I thought you were a mountain goat."

  "Mr. Christian?" he yelled and continued knocking.

  I stumbled down the stairs. "Norman Bates, I thought you were going to kill me while I was in the shower," I whispered with a snicker.

  "Matt, are you okay?" he shouted in a concerned tone.

  I opened the door. “Mr. Mullis, you could wake the dead.”

  He exhaled. "Oh, thank Jesus."

  "Speaking of Jesus, my room is a tomb. I thought I was going to suffocate."

  He lowered his head. "I was afraid you didn't make it through the night." He looked like a sweet, worried grandpa.

  I relaxed against the door frame. "Mr. Mullis, I'm fine. I just didn't hear you knock at first. Concrete doors and all."

  "That's why I banged so hard, and they aren't made of concrete. They're wood."

  I rapped my knuckles on it. "That's the heaviest wood I've ever...pushed."

  "It's called bloodwood."

  "Bloodwood?"

  Examining the door, I realized the color resembled streaks of thick, dried blood.

  "The windows—"

  Franklin frowned at my hair. "Matt, you look like hell. Why are you all wet? Have you showered?”

  "As a matter of fact, yes, the devil painting and I both showered last night."

  He waved me off. "Get dressed. We can talk about it later."

  "Why? What time is it? I thought we were meeting after church." Not able to hide my sarcasm, "Oh, no, did I sleep through it?"

  "No such luck. That's why I'm here, to make sure you get to the church on time. I have to admit, I'm a little surprised. I thought a city boy like yourself woke up with your hair combed."

  I returned a slight laugh. So much for the sweet-ole-grandpa act.

  He pulled his chin back. "Haven't brushed your teeth either. Well, get ready. I'm taking you somewhere."

  My eyes widened. "Where am I going?"

  "To the Bucket for breakfast."

  "Breakfast?" The word was so beautiful it hurt to even say it. Except I didn't have any money. "Breakfast and church sound like a full morning."

  "Yes, that's the spirit," he said. "Let's go. I'm starving, so hurry."

  "Would you like to come in?"

  "No, it's a beautiful day out."

  "Okay. I'll be out shortly."

  He stood in front of the door, still looking at me as I shut it. I was amused by how extremely odd he was.

  Back upstairs, I tried to be quick. To keep all the questions about the house and the dread of being forced to go to church at bay, I let the need for food be my motivation. I only had fifteen cents, but I was going to find a way to eat. My stomach growled in agreement.

  Besides my stomach, I kept hearing Franklin in my head, and found myself saying his words out loud, "If you want to fit in, then you have to be seen."

  I accepted my fate. Since I was going to be seen, I decided to put on my finest. I rummaged through my bags for my only clean outfit—the suit I wore to my father's funeral. I picked up the tie and stared at it. It used to be my favorite tie, but now it was a reminder of ...

  "Stop thinking so much."

  I snapped out of the past and I dug out a collared shirt. I gave it a shake. It wouldn't be ironed, but I hoped it would be good enough for the Baptists.

  I ran into the hall.

  Franklin stood there with his back to me.

  “Mr. Mullis—”

  He shut the door to the second bedroom. I shifted my eyes into the room, but he closed the door before I could make out anything.

  “I’m sorry, I thought you were waiting downstairs?”

  He put his keys back in his pocket. “I just remembered something I was going to give to Mr. Bankward.” Mr. Mullis waved off his words. “He runs the bank.”

  I gestured to his hands.

  “I guess you didn’t find it?”

  “Excuse me?”

  I gestured to his hands. “You aren’t holding anything.”

  “Oh. No, I couldn’t find it. No matter.”

  “After breakfast, I could help—”

  “No, thank you, but after breakfast, you’re going to church.”

  My stomach growled.

  “I agree with your stomach. Let’s go eat.”

  Other people were out and about as we walked down Windy Hill Lane past the Baptist church. It wasn't a bustling neighborhood, but we saw about a dozen or so people. Franklin must have been well-known because the few people we passed all said hello to him. He was short with small talk, explaining that we were running late, but told them all to “be ready for a surprise in church.” That comment made me more nervous every time he said it, but I kept my focus on the most important thing, bacon.

  “Mr. Christian, slow down. You are moving like a dog ready to hunt.”

  I stopped and let Mr. Mullis catch up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mullis.”

  “I understand, you’re a young man. Simple thoughts.”

  I laughed.

  He chuckled, “I didn’t mean to offend, but I see you didn’t take it that way. I just mean that young men think about certain things.”

  “A man has to eat.”

  “Food, water, shelter—”

  “The water here is terrible.”

  “Yes, it is. You have to boil it. You didn’t drink much, did you?”

  “I had some for dinner last night.”

  “For dinner?”

  “Sorry, I always think I’m funny when I’m hungry.”

  “Matt, when is the last time you ate?”

  I didn’t know if I should tell him how broke I was, but I’d have to tell him something so he’d pay for my meal.

  “Young men, simple thoughts. Don’t worry, I’ll pick up the tab for breakfast.”

  Oh boy, I had finally made my way up to purgatory. My southern upbringing tugged at my soul to decline, but my simple thoughts rose above the noise of etiquette. “Mr. Mullis, I promise, I’ll pay you back.”

  “Well, you are a bit puny.”

  Matt shot him a glance.

  “Well, tall, but puny.”

  “Hey, you can call me whatever you want if you’re buying.”

  Franklin didn't laugh.

  14

  Franklin explained that the Bucket got its name from the buckets the miners used to carry their lunch in to work. But upon entering the storefront, I wondered if it was named after its size and smell. It was a cramped space that didn't appear to be clean enough to eat in. There was no bar-top seating, and the kitchen was hidden in another room behind a standard, half-shut door without a knob on it. The Bucket was a hole-in-the-wall muddled with black coffee, the sour-sweet scent of old grease, and man-sweat.

  Franklin wove his way through the ten to twelve square, mismatched tables, toward the only empty table in front of the street-side window. It was prime real estate in the restaurant and, luckily, because of the window, there was a draft.

  A tall, thin, middle-aged redhead brought us two cups and a pot of steaming hot coffee. After she poured us both a cup, I held it under my nose for relief against the putrid smell.

  "Are you cold or is it the smell?" Franklin asked.

  I was completely put on the spot in front of the waitress. "Um, I just like coffee."

  "Then you two will get along great. Frank drinks a few pots every day."

  "Well, it keeps me chipper. But, Matt, as far as the smell goes, this used to be the boot shop."

  "Boot shop? I had no idea."

  The waitress twisted her tongue around in her mouth before she broke into a clumsy grunted laugh. "He's an awful liar. Better keep an eye on this one, Frank."

  "Will do, Petunia. Let's get some food."

  Without a menu, Franklin ordered scrambled eggs with grits and corn fritters, both with extra butter.

  The waitress rocked her weight back on her hip and pointed her front foot out slightly. "Frank, don't you want your salt pork?"

  "That's the reason I come here, Petunia. You take such good care of me." Franklin was a flirt. I can't blame him, though. Having something pretty to check out from time to time makes even old frowns show their false teeth.

  "And what about you, handsome?" Petunia smiled as she looked down at her notepad.

  "Um," I was distracted by the comment, but flattered. "I'll have—” My mind froze up.

  "Honey, I promise the food ain't that bad."

  "Oh no, I've already eaten." What the hell was I saying?

  Franklin narrowed his eyes. "Really? What did you have?"

  My eyebrows went up. "Well, I ..."

  Petunia snickered. “Bad, bad liar. I hope you’re going to church after this.”

  Franklin grunted, then pointed to Petunia's notepad. "Bring him some eggs, grits, and fried pork, too."

  "Will do, Frank.” She cocked an eyebrow at me. “Biscuits or corn fritters?"

  "Biscuits. Can I get my eggs scrambled too?”

  “That’s the only way they come here, honey.”

  “And um, what is fried pork?"

  "It's just sausage without the casing."

  "Oh. Sounds perfect."

  Petunia laughed. "Oh boy, Frank, where did you find this one? Food will be out in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” Franklin said eyeing her as she walked away.

  "So, is Petunia your favorite waitress?"

  "Well, look around, young man. The other ones are much too old to look at. Petunia is what the young folks would call a 'fox.'" He sipped his coffee.

  I scanned the room. They were only two other waitresses in the diner, but if he meant the youngest of the waitresses, then I guessed he was correct.

  “Are you ready for church?” he asked.

  “I’ll just say, I’d rather be standing in front of a classroom instead of standing in front of a church.”

  “It won’t be that bad. It’s just town politics. Come noon everyone in the town will know who you are.”

  "That sounds intimidating."

  "Ha! Matt, you’re in a small town. If you walk outside your house, you will find yourself surrounded by your students. And if not them, their parents."

  I pushed my glasses back on my nose. "Have you worked with the other teachers in town?"

  He went blank. I was about to apologize for whatever I said or did, but our food arrived.

  I picked up my fork.

  “Lord, honey, let me put the plate down first.”

  I put the fork down and took the plate from her. “How did it come out so fast?”

  “’Cause we only serve scrambled eggs. They should still be warm.”

  I picked up the biscuit. Smiling, I looked up at Franklin, but he wasn't amused. "What?" I asked.

  "We haven't said grace."

  "Oh." I said, then with great pain I put the warm, buttery biscuit down.

  While Franklin prayed silently, I stared in gluttonous lust at the plate before me, praying I wouldn’t lick the butter off my fingertips.

  "Amen."

  "Amen, yes."

  As I stuffed my face with a biscuit as slowly as I could, I noticed Franklin's salted pork slice was bigger than his plate. The ham was seared, but the fat touched the table. I tried not to stare, but every time Franklin moved his ham it would leave a little grease trail like a slug. I checked my plate. I was glad he'd ordered me "fried pork."

  I picked up my fork again and went to town on my breakfast. It wasn't that bad at all. I stared back at Franklin's ham slug, but I made sure to look out the window before he caught me.

  An attractive, darker-complexioned woman in her late twenties with long, straight, black hair was standing across the street. "Is there a substantial Indian population here?"

  Franklin turned to the window to take a look. "Ah, her name is Litonya.”

  "Litonya?" I repeated.

  "It's an Indian name—Shawnee. Used to be lots of them in these parts."

  "She's waving at you," I said.

  "What?" Franklin asked.

  I pointed with my spoon. "Litonya is waving at you."

  Franklin gave a smile and a little wave. A teenage boy was standing with her. She tapped the boy on the arm, who wasn't paying attention. She pointed to us while she talked to him and waved. The boy looked directly at us and turned his head away in disinterest.

  Franklin furrowed his brow back to its usual state. "She is an interesting woman, but her son, Peter, well, he's a... bit of a troublemaker."

  Litonya continued to wave.

  "You are being rude. Wave back to her," Franklin said talking with his mouth full.

  I realized I was staring. "Oh. Yes." I waved to her, and she nudged her son on the arm, prompting him to wave, again, with no result.

  "If you haven't noticed," Franklin leaned in, "she's the tastiest thing on the menu."

  I turned back to look at her. Mainly to give me the chance to look away from Franklin's horny, wrinkly, food-smacking face, but he was right, she was attractive.

 

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