At the top of her lungs, she called out, “Goddammit, Brad—what the hell are you doing?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t stop digging. Scoop by scoop he added to the pile he’d made, beside the tombstone of a veteran who surely wasn’t buried there.
“What’s going on?” Gabe asked from the bedroom.
She dashed down the stairs, stumbling a little, despite the fact that the bourbon had almost burned itself out of her blood by now, and she was thinking she could seriously use another drink, the sooner the better … maybe even before she went outside, except the bottle wasn’t on the way and this was not the time. Unless it was the perfect time.
Were there new handprints on the railing? She didn’t look.
Was that a yellow dress, at the very far edge of the living area? Did it flutter in wet gusts that filled the whole house, but shouldn’t have? It was only one broken window. It was only that second-floor hallway. It was warm in there, a few minutes ago.
But Dahlia was running too fast to wonder too hard.
She skidded under the oversized pendant light and looked back in time to see the guys leaving her bedroom. She blinked, and they were on the upstairs landing, and there was a door open in the hallway to their left—one that needed to be cut open, but no one had cut it open yet.
But Brad was in the cemetery, so she ran to him, across wet grass that slapped around her ankles and left the hems of her jeans damp and sticky against her calves. She slipped in mud that’d been earth just an hour before, but now some maniac had scooped it up and flung it out, certain there must be a grave underneath it.
It only looked like a grave, that’s what she told herself. Brad only looked like a grave digger, and the flash of pale motion behind him only looked like a yellow dress.
None of it was true or real, and none of it deserved this muddy imposition—not from Brad, not from the salvage company, not from the bulldozers that were coming next week. She felt it keenly, the ache of an old injury that had never healed right. She felt it along her forearms, the sharp burn of a blade and the heat of warm blood pooling and falling.
She looked down. She was wearing her gray flannel again, and the sleeves were soaked.
They were red. They were hot.
She looked up, and Brad was covered in reddish-brown earth that was full of clay. It spattered him from head to toe, gumming up his hair and giving him a slippery grip on the shovel’s handle.
“What…?” she started to ask, but who was she asking?
Brad wasn’t paying attention, and Bobby and Gabe weren’t yet on the scene. But there was someone behind Brad, anyway, and she wasn’t wearing a yellow dress, not this time. She was only a shadow, something as ragged and wet and filthy as the mud she stood in.
Dahlia pushed up her sleeves and found slash marks, long and red. “What…?” she tried again, this time imploring Brad with her eyes, with her arms held out, reaching for him to notice her. She’d bleed to death in another minute if nobody did anything. “What’s happening?” she asked, showing him the blood.
“It’s bullshit,” he said. The same thing he always said. He swung the shovel down again, stepping on it to force it farther. “It’s bullshit.”
“Brad, help me…”
“No, you help me!” He swung the shovel harder, with anger, and when it pierced the lot again, the metal didn’t ping with that oddball chime. It stuck in place. He used his shoe to hold something down, and yank the shovel out.
“Brad, something’s wrong…”
“It’s bullshit, Dahlia. Holy God. It’s bullshit, and I knew it. Look at this … I found him.”
Huffing and puffing, Bobby staggered into the sphere of light. “Found who?”
Brad smacked the head of the shovel against the broken tombstone. “Private First Class Reagan H. Foster, that’s who.”
Gabe staggered a little farther into the light, up to the edge of the ragged hole. “Holy shit! Dahlia, holy shit!”
“Boys…,” she said, feeling faint. Of course she felt faint; she was going to faint, or throw up. Any moment now, she’d lose consciousness or lose her lunch, and it’d be the last thing she ever did.
Gabe was distracted by the hole, and what was in it.
It was Bobby who asked after her first. “Dahl, what’s wrong?”
“Bobby…,” she whispered. She held out her arms to show him the flannel sleeves shoved up around her elbows, and the wet, white skin that was bright as marble in the lantern light. “Bobby, my arms … there’s…”
There were goose bumps.
Bobby took her wrists, and examined them one after the other. “They look all right to me. What’d you get, snakebit or something? Did a spider catch you?”
She sucked down a gasp and jerked away from him, forcing the cuffs back down around her wrists. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think straight. “Nothing. It’s nothing, it’s nothing … it’s bullshit,” she stammered, stealing Brad’s line. “Never mind. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … to freak out.” She stepped around Bobby, to stand near where Gabe was standing slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, staring into the hole. She slipped in the mud, caught herself on Gabe’s arm, and gasped Brad’s name.
Down in the ground, there was a smattering of rotted fabric. Inside that fabric was a coat.
Rain was falling now, so the droplets washed mud from the buttons in specks, letting a little light of brass shine through. They were sewn onto fabric that could’ve been any color once, but now it was the shade of clay and dirt, and beneath it was a scaffolding of ribs. The ribs were gray and white with streaks of rust-colored earth. They jutted from the shallow grave like teeth, like stones, like fingers.
“I found him…,” Brad breathed. All the air had been let out of him. He dropped to his knees. For a second Dahlia thought he might pass out on the spot, but he only panted and jabbed the shovel into the earth beside the mess he’d made. He looked up and let the rain hit his face. “Oh my God, I found a body. You guys, we have to call the police.”
Dahlia wanted to protest. It was almost a knee-jerk response, like she was the same dumb kid who’d been caught lifting beer from a 7-Eleven—because no, you don’t call the police. Not unless you have to. The police only make things worse—that’s what she almost said, but she didn’t.
Bobby was the one who pumped the brakes.
“Hang on, hang on,” he urged, gazing down at the exposed corpse. Everyone was looking at it. No one could resist it. He pointed down at the ragged coat, the brass buttons. The jagged ribs. “This old soldier … the stone says … what’s it say?” He tore his eyes away to scan the marker’s inscription by the lantern light. “He’s been here since 1915. So you were right, man: This was a cemetery. But you can’t just call the cops and tell them you dug up a dead soldier!”
Dahlia choked on a horrified gargle. “Jesus, Brad … what the hell have you done?”
Frantic, he shrieked back, “I only dug him up because you said there was nobody here!”
“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard!” she yelled in return. She had no patience left, no calmness. There was no more room for reasonableness. “You can’t blame this on me!”
“Then blame it on … on the Withrow lady! She’s the one who lied to us!”
Gabe paced around the edge of the hole, wringing his hands together and wiping the rain off his forehead. “Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she was just wrong.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Dahlia said, wet and rattled to the core, but determined to get a grip on the situation. “You did this, and you can blame whoever you want—but when you call the cops, they’ll smell bourbon and think you got drunk and went grave robbing. Because that’s pretty much what happened. You understand me?”
He shook harder, and the rain kept coming down. There wasn’t any thunder or lightning, only the persistent thud and splatter of the bottom dropping out. He didn’t quite whimper when he said, “None of you have my back?”
She took him
by the shirt and pulled him away from the grave, and up close to her face. They both looked cadaverous in the lantern light. “I do have your back, and that’s why we’re not calling the cops.”
“You’re not?”
“No one is going to call them, not yet. Not me, and not them, either.” She indicated her cousins. “Not until we’ve had some time to think. Because even if the cops don’t arrest you for grave robbing, they’ll almost certainly tell us to pack it up and head home.”
“But … it’s only a gig,” he mumbled, wriggling backward, trying to get away.
She held on tight, and yanked him closer. “If the Withrow estate doesn’t pan out, it’s our last gig, okay? Dad sank every penny we’ve got into the salvage rights. If we don’t pick it clean and sell it fast, Music City will fold up shop. Is that what you want?”
“What? I … no, of course not, I…”
Gabe froze. His forehead crumpled, and his fingers tied themselves into knots. “Dahl? Is that true?”
She let go of Brad. He staggered backward.
“Yes,” she admitted. “But it won’t come to that, I swear. We’ll salvage the house, and we’ll make a killing back in Nashville. Everything will be fine. My dad won’t stop smiling for a month.”
“So we’re not calling the police…?” Brad pulled his hoodie tighter, drawing the hood up over his head and tugging the strings until his face was all that showed.
Bobby took a crack at being a reassuring adult. He gently pulled Brad’s shovel out of his fingers, and slung an arm around his shoulder. He led him away from the hole. “That’s right, man. No cops, no trouble.”
“Not until I’ve had some time to think,” Dahlia specified.
Brad stumbled, and almost resisted. “But … we can’t just leave him like that.”
Bobby paused. “We should do something.”
Gabe raised his voice to cover the white-noise drumming of the rain. “We could cover him back up?”
“I’ll take care of it. Y’all get back inside.” Bobby hoisted the shovel and used it to wave toward the house. The grave was already filling with water, and the disturbed earth around it was so wet it was almost runny. He grabbed a scoop anyway, and tossed it into the hole.
Dahlia didn’t argue with him. She was exhausted, frightened, and relieved to have the help for once. “Brad. Gabe. Come on, now. Leave him to it. Thanks, Bobby.”
He grunted his “you’re welcome” and struggled to load another shovelful.
Everyone else trudged back up to the house.
Shoes came off, and rested on the porch to dry out later. Flannels came off and flopped together in a sodden pile by the door. Dahlia said “to hell with it”—and unhooked her bra inside her shirt, then pulled it out through one sleeve. It came out limp and slimy with rain. She pretended to slingshot it up the stairs, but it landed on the rail and dangled sadly over the side.
Bobby caught up sooner than expected, dashing up the porch steps as Gabe was shuffling around in sock-feet, looking for the bourbon.
“You’re back in a hurry,” Dahlia noted.
“Fuck it. Rain started coming down like crazy, and there’s nothing but mud to work with. I threw a tarp over him, and put a couple of rocks on the corners. Tomorrow or the next day, whenever it dries out … I’ll finish the job.”
“No, I’ll do it.” Brad sat forlorn on the edge of the fireplace step. “This is my fault. I’m sorry. I was just so goddamn sure there was a ghost, and if there’s a ghost, there’s a body, someplace…” His voice petered out. He put his head in his hands.
“All you did was make a mess.” She ran her fingers through her hair, where they snagged in the dripping tangles. She untwined them, and dried her hands on the one unsoaked corner of her shirt. “As long as we all keep our mouths shut, we can undo the mess later, and pretend it never happened. Now. Who wants to take a shower first?”
No one responded. No one made a move toward the stairs, or toward the agreed-upon bedrooms with all the towels and toiletries.
She tried again. “Nobody? No one wants to hole up in a pink bathroom, turn on the water, and try to take a shower without shitting yourself from fright?”
No one answered that, either. The guys stared at the floor, or their hands, or their socks.
“Got it,” she said. “Everybody knows there’s something bad in the bathrooms. Fine, I’ll go first. We’ll do this in shifts: one person washes up, one person stands guard outside. I don’t know if it’ll help or not, but it’ll make me feel better. Any objections?”
The guys shook their heads.
“All right, then. There’s a fresh bottle of bourbon in the kitchen, in the cabinet next to the dumbwaiter. It ain’t Maker’s, because I ain’t made of money. Everyone, help yourself.”
Bobby lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t want a couple of fingers before you hit the shower?”
“I’ve already had a couple, but they’re worn off now, and that’s all right. I want to pay attention. I want to see if I can … see anything.” But even after that speech, Dahlia didn’t move; so they stayed there in that grand living area, listening to the rain knock leaves from the trees, and puddle in the clogged gutters. She hugged her arms, and let them think it must be for warmth.
She was stalling.
“Gabe, do me a favor, hon? Give me a minute to get my clothes together, and then come camp out in my room to keep watch for me.”
He agreed, and up the stairs they went.
At the top, Dahlia looked left, at the broken window. Through the window, the air was mist and autumn—just like it’d become inside. Beyond the window, there was no soft pinging of a shovel, no lantern light, and no soldier, either.
She knew it without going over to look, or listen. If she put her head past the broken pane and leaned out into the night, she’d see something worse, something bad and covered in blood, despite the hearty rain. She knew it as sure as she knew she wasn’t alone in that pink bathroom.
She just didn’t know why.
9
DAHLIA DUTTON BRUSHED her teeth, watching her own reflection the whole time. She examined her face like she’d have to describe it to a police sketch artist, pore by pore, line by line. It was better to count frown lines, better to watch the toothpaste foam collect in the corners of her mouth, than to let her eyes wander to the mirror’s edges—and maybe catch a glimpse of something she didn’t want to see.
The bathroom was pretty big, so far as old bathrooms went. There was plenty of room for someone or something to stand behind her. Several someones. Several somethings.
“Gabe?” she called out.
He answered from the other side of the door. “Right here. Not touching anything. Still covered in mud, so hurry up.”
“I’m going to open the door a little bit, then start my shower, okay? I’m trusting you.”
“I won’t peek.”
“You better swear it.”
“Dahl, don’t be gross. It’d be like seeing my mom naked.”
“Thanks…?” She tried to shine the word up with a joking smile, so he didn’t hear her shaking when she said it. “Okay, here goes.”
She opened the door, far enough that she could slide out sideways without touching it, if she wanted. It gave her a little privacy, but left her an escape route. With that in mind, she stripped down to nothing and leaned over the side of the tub, turning the porcelain knobs to start the water. It came out brown again at first, then cleared up as it warmed.
Looking around the bathroom, she was halfway glad it would all get torn down in a week. It was a mess—covered in muddy fingerprints, footprints, and a floor full of wet, dirty clothes. It’d be easier to total it than scrub it down.
She looked over her shoulder, checking the mirror without meaning to. Thank God, she didn’t see anything but her own bare back in a pink tiled room, slowly filling up with steam.
Deep breath.
She was only naked. It was only a ghost. Ghosts can’t actually hurt you, can
they? “Let’s say no,” she whispered to herself, and stepped over the cold, smooth lip of the tub. One foot at a time, she climbed inside until she stood mid-thigh in the stream. She reached up to adjust the shower head. She closed her eyes. Water hit her face.
And the other thing hit her, too—the Taser-sharp, heaven-bright flash of light and electricity.
Blinded, even with her eyes open now—they were open, weren’t they? And stinging—she staggered, slipped, and caught herself. She put one hand out for balance, hoping to find the wall, with its slick tiles that felt like a salamander looks. But the wall wasn’t there, not where she thought it should be. She’d turned herself around and wiped at her eyes, willing the vivid static to pass. It faded, then flared again.
“Oh God,” she gulped. Her feet made squeaky noises on the enamel as she shuffled this way and that, hunting for the wall, or the showerhead pipe, or the tub’s edge. If she could find the edge, she could get out, and the light could go away and her heart could stop trying to hammer its way up and out of her mouth, and how big was this goddamn tub, anyway?
She spun around and slipped. Floundering, she almost called out for Gabe, but bit down on her tongue as her hand flew out.
It caught something, or something caught it. Another grasp. Another hand.
Not a big one.
It wasn’t the hand of a heavyset kid a few inches over six feet tall in his bare feet—not her cousin, keeping his word on the other side of the bathroom door. No, this was a small hand, with bird-light bones and fingers as narrow as sticks of chalk. Dahlia recoiled, but the hand came with her, squeezing hard as she pulled away, as she scrambled to escape the bathtub and its scorching jets of water that brought the electric lightning and the shocking water terror.
That’s right.
“What? What are you, what did you, what’s right?” she blubbered quietly, not wanting Gabe yet—she didn’t want to scare him, and didn’t want him to see her like this, and anyway, this was only a child. A dead one, maybe, but Gabe had said it himself—a dead child is more sad than scary. Unless it isn’t, and it’s reaching for you, holding your fingers with its own and squeezing so tight you think your bones might break.