“I am pleased to meet you, Vern. I have been waiting,” it said, then galloped forward. A sound like a storm siren blared from its lungs, and the antlered beast engulfed her.
Vern flailed. She punched, kneed, and scratched, fighting mercilessly though impaired by garment-cuffed ankles. With a shudder, she pushed hard against the ground to stand. She threw one last punch, but it landed in the air.
She was alone again, only the ringing in her ears from the creature’s scream testifying to its earlier presence. Though nothing remained of its physical form, Vern knew something—something real—had been there with her. That creature was more alive than any of Vern’s other hauntings. She’d felt an intelligence, a consciousness. It was a somebody, and it knew her.
Instinct told her the rest. The poison or sickness inside her had finally taken strong enough hold to bring the antlered beast to her.
Vern pulled up her pants and stumbled through the woods toward the sound of her children banging together those damn sticks. “Howling. Feral. Let’s go,” she said.
They didn’t hesitate, chasing after their jogging mam.
“Took you long enough,” said Bridget tersely when Vern and the children returned to the truck. She turned the key and pulled back onto the abandoned mountain road.
14
BRIDGET’S PLACE was a small cabin on squatted land. It sat in battered defiance at the center of a small clearing in the mountains. “She’s sturdier than she looks,” said Bridget.
Vern hummed under her breath, arms thrown over the shoulders of her children.
There was no lock on the door, and to open it Bridget slammed her shoulder into the wood as she turned the knob. The hinges creaked like a dying hog.
“Come in. You need to lie down,” said Bridget. The children slipped from Vern’s embrace and stepped inside, but Vern hesitated outside.
“What?” asked Bridget. “Do you need some help?”
Vern took in her surroundings. “This place. It’s just kind of familiar.” She squeezed her arms around herself.
Like corpses, half memories bobbed to the surface from the waters of a past that wasn’t hers. A muddy pathway. A solemn girl on a rickety porch swing looking out into the distance with a disapproving frown.
Clear as day, it was Lucy.
“Leave me alone, Mama,” she said to Vern.
Vern reached out to touch her best friend, but before her fingers made contact, Lucy was gone.
“Come on. You’re letting all the cold in,” said Bridget, rubbing her hands together. “Vern?”
“Sorry. I’m coming,” said Vern, stuttering. Never before had she had a haunting from someone she knew.
Vern unfixed her eyes from the spot where Lucy had been, then went inside. Shoes lay in a small pile by the door. Among them was a pair of dirty white tennis shoes with pink and red trim, a mud-covered image of Minnie Mouse on the sides. Were there children here?
The entryway opened into a modest living space. A leather couch sat in front of a rickety wood coffee table. There was a wood-burning stove, a buffalo hide on the floor, a few bookshelves. A large weaving over the mantel offered vibrant color in a room that was otherwise dominated by brown. A hunting rifle was mounted by the door.
“You can set your things down there,” said Bridget, gesturing to the pile of shoes before starting a fire in the stove. The Minnie Mouse shoes were gone. “Howling? Feral? That’s your names, right? How about some food?”
Bridget threw some plastic containers into the microwave, and when it dinged, she served the meal on the coffee table for the children, where they sat on their knees to eat. “Pumpkin-and-beef stew,” she said.
“Thank you very much,” Feral said politely, grinning wide at remembering his manners.
Prompted by his sibling, Howling grunted something that could’ve been a thank-you.
Howling finished his food quickly, a glass of water in one hand as he picked up each object in Bridget’s living room with the other. The sun shone brightly through the open curtains, and he held up each fascination to the light. A bronze statue head, some coasters, framed photographs, pillow cushions.
“Can I get you something to eat, too, Vern? That’s the last of the stew, but I can fry you up some—”
“No, thank you.” Her jawbone hurt and her throat felt inflamed.
“Then I’ll just get you some water. Anything else you need?”
“Some ibuprofen?” asked Vern. “And acetaminophen, too.”
Bridget gave her an encouraging pat. “Just one second. Make yourself at home,” she said, and Vern did. She opened every closet, examined every shelf. She’d entered the den of a stranger, but she wouldn’t be caught unawares again.