Bridget returned with the pills, and Vern shot down double doses of each. “I’m heating up some frozen chili now on the stove. There’s not much left, so I set some venison thawing for later.”
A fresh wave of pain dizzied Vern. Now that she’d finally reached her destination, her debility had decided to make room for itself.
Heat from the woodstove had warmed the small cabin enough that Bridget and the children had removed multiple lay ers of clothing. Howling and Feral were down to their muscle-tee undershirts and leggings. Bundled in her coat, Vern still felt a chill.
“You sure you don’t want at least some eggs or something? You look like you need it. When was the last time you ate?”
Vern had waned to a sliver over the last several weeks. The sickness had a ferocious appetite. What it could not gobble up from Vern’s belly, it devoured from her physical person.
Too jittery to sit, Vern trod the living room with agitated stiffness while the children played. Feral jumped from the couch down to the buffalo hide, then on top of a chair in front of a desk. He climbed on top the desk, then made the jump back to the couch, giggling as he landed on the soft cushion. Even lost in her sickness, Vern could appreciate his freeness. He was a spirited, buoyant thing. Feral had always been her sweet little bear, but he was more, too. By comparing him to his moody, precocious sibling, she’d underestimated him.
Vern grabbed the throw draped over the back of the sofa and cocooned herself within it. Bridget watched her from the kitchen as she cracked eggs into a skillet.
“Do me a favor, Vern, and sit down. Better yet, lie down,” said Bridget.
Vern had exhausted herself with the manic pacing and agreed to Bridget’s request. Legs spindly and rigid, she hobbled toward the sofa. In her febrile state, she hardly noticed it when a child appeared before her. She collided with it and stumbled.
“Vern? You okay?” asked Bridget, grabbing her by the elbow. Vern stood in stricken silence. “Vern? What is it?”
Vern’s breaths made a sound like a gale wind when they passed through her clenched teeth. “It’s Lucy,” answered Vern.
Her best friend had returned, though not the version of her that had been outside on the porch swing. This Lucy looked to be nine years old and was wearing a tank top with a pair of red track shorts, white race stripes down the sides. Minnie Mouse tennis shoes. Red bobbles and white barrettes in her hair. Black knees and black elbows shiny with Vaseline. Smelling like Luster’s Pink hair lotion. Smelling like Irish Spring soap. Smelling like a stick of Queen Helene cocoa butter. God of Cain, her lips were glistening with it.
“How is this possible?” Vern croaked.
Lucy’s eyes narrowed at Vern, and she spoke: “You’re gonna pay for that, asswipe,” she said, lunging forward. In the space it took Vern to blink, Lucy’s hands had ensnared Vern’s neck. Vern tried to gasp but no sound came out, windpipe smashed shut. Lucy laughed all the while.
“Vern? Vern! Vern, what’s wrong?” asked Bridget.
Vern closed her eyes and opened them again, released from her best friend’s grip and finally able to breathe. Lucy was gone.
“Where the hell did that mark on your neck come from? Jesus Christ,” Bridget said. She led Vern to the sofa and forced her to lie back.
“Lucy did it,” said Vern. “The hauntings.” Fatigue smothered her like an August heat wave. She was on the verge of an epiphany, but she couldn’t fully put it together. “They’re real. They’re real. They’re real.”
“What’s real, Mam?” asked Feral. The children had stopped their play to kneel beside Vern on the sofa. Their cheeks rested against the edge of the seat cushion, the tops of their heads pressed into Vern’s rib cage.
“Lucy. The wolves,” she said.
They couldn’t understand. “Love you, Mam,” Feral said, so soft and sweet.
Howling grabbed her hand, then laid his head on her belly. “What’s wrong with you, Mam?” he asked. “You want me to rub salve on your back?”
“Shh. Don’t worry about me,” she said.
“Howling, Feral,” Bridget interjected. “I’m gonna set up a movie for you on my computer. Why don’t you go pick from one of the DVDs on the bookshelf?” She pointed to a row of children’s films.
“It’s a story with pictures on a special machine,” Vern explained, preempting their questions. “You’ll like it. Promise.”
“Come on,” said Bridget.