The Purchase

by Amy Cross

  “I'll find that gold. You wait and see.”

  “You got any family anywhere?”

  Munver paused, before shaking his head.

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet?”

  “When I'm rich, I'm gonna -”

  “Buy yourself a wife. I remember.” Garrett smiled. “And some fancy clothes. Why, Mr. Munver, I'm sure you'll clean up just fine.”

  “What does that mean?” Munver asked. “Clean up how?”

  “Never mind.” Again, Garrett seemed amused. “You must get mighty lonely out here. Before I showed up this evening, when's the last time you spoke to another human being?”

  “A while ago. I don't recall.”

  “This year?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Only maybe?” Garrett broke into an out-and-out laugh. “Is there really no-one out there missing you, friend? Not even a dog?”

  “I never had a dog,” Munver said seriously.

  “I bet you didn't.” Garrett took another long drink from the bottle, before setting it on the nearby table. “You could use one up here, though. To keep you from going crazy.”

  “I don't go crazy,” Munver replied, tapping the side of his temple. “I'm strong up here, you see. I'm a tough egg.”

  Garrett chuckled and took another swig from the bottle, while glancing briefly at the foul little box under the chair.

  Munver caught the glance, but quickly reassured himself that it must have been accidental. Still, something about Garrett was really starting to annoy him. The man reminded him of all the sneering, snobbish people he'd hated in town. He'd headed out to make his fortune, with the aim of one day returning all rich and mighty, and showing those assholes that he was a big man. Now here was Garrett, reminding him of everything he'd so deliberately left behind. Slowly, even though he'd never dare to use it, Munver clenched his right fist and tried to figure out how he was going to get rich from this visitor. Because if there was one thing he knew for certain, it was this: he, Stuart Munver, was not going to be denied.

  Six

  “Of course I was there!” Garrett roared a few hours later, as soon as he'd finished taking another swig from the whiskey bottle. “How dare you even ask a man of my age if he fought! I was a young man during the war and I stuck at it the whole way through! I'm no coward! I wasn't a lickspittle, either. I was always pushing to the front.”

  “Which side were you on?” Munver asked.

  “Which side?” Garrett stared at him for a moment, as if he found the question preposterous. The crackling fire lit one side of his face, while the other side was bathed in darkness from the window. “Well, which side do you think, man? Can't you tell from my accent? Think very carefully before you answer, by the way.” He narrowed his eyes as he continued to watch Munver, and now he seemed extremely keen on a response. “Which side do you reckon I fought on?”

  “Uh...”

  “The right side, of course.” He laughed a sudden, abrupt laugh that scared Munver a little. “Whoo-oop, for a moment there I thought you were serious.” He chuckled. He'd already decided that Munver was basically harmless, but he was starting to find the man's simplicity rather amusing. “Which side, indeed. Thank you for the laugh.”

  “Okay.” Munver paused. He realized he was supposed to understand, but he couldn't quite pick up the clues. He certainly didn't want to admit that he was confused. “I see.”

  “That war made me the man I am today,” Garrett continued, leaning back in the chair. He'd been getting louder and more garrulous over the past few hours, as the drinking had continued, but now the edge was coming off a little and he seemed tired. “By the time I finished fighting, I was a foot taller and six inches broader at the shoulders. When I went home, my own family barely recognized me. I was scrawny when I went to fight, but when I returned I was built like a brick shit-house.”

  “Like a what?” Munver asked, perched on one of the other chairs.

  “It's a phrase,” Garrett said, his voice slurring slightly as he set the bottle back on the table. “Don't you know anything? Drink some more of this and try to keep up with the conversation.”

  Munver took the bottle and pretended to drink, while watching as Garrett turned his head and looked toward the window. Snow was still falling outside, and after a moment Garrett murmured something that seemed to be about shovels and the need to dig out a path in the morning. Nothing about his tone indicated that he expected an answer; rather, it was as if he was content murmuring away to himself.

  “Was I in the war?” he added finally, closing his eyes. “What kind of a stupid question is that? You're lucky I don't beat you down for asking.”

  “I once heard Angelica Graft talk about the war,” Munver said. He always enjoyed any chance to say that woman's name; in some strange way, the mere mention of her made him feel as if she was becoming part of his life. “She said it was so hard, not knowing which way things were gonna go. She said it was the uncertainty that got to her the most, but she said she never doubted who'd win.”

  He waited, but Garrett's eyes were still closed.

  Was he asleep?

  “I said, Angelica Graft used to talk about the war,” Munver continued, hoping to determine Garrett's state a little more clearly. “A fine woman, she is, with intelligent opinions. I learned a lot from listening to her. She's as clever as she is pretty. It's not just me who says it, either. Everyone knows.”

  Munver waited, but after a few more seconds he realized that Garrett was breathing very slowly now. Having drunk almost half the bottle of whiskey already, the older man seemed to have slipped into inebriation and was dozing happily by the fire. The only sound now was the crackling of the wood in the hearth, and Munver barely even dared to breathe in case he suddenly caused Garrett to stir.

  Finally, slowly, Munver looked down at the lady-box on the floor. He knew he should leave it well alone, but he'd mentioned Angelica Graft a few times over the past half hour and her name always drove him into something of a frenzy. He glanced back at Garrett, to make doubly sure that he was asleep, and then he slowly picked up the lady-box and shuffled over to the far corner, away from the light of the fire.

  He looked back again to check that Garrett hadn't woken, and then he lowered the lady-box to his waist and began to unbutton the front of his pants. It took a moment for him to get the front open, and then he reached in and took hold of the base of his manhood.

  And then he froze.

  He'd performed this exact routine many times. In fact, the lady-box came out two or three times every evening, but this time he hesitated as he realized that he might have another option. His mind was racing, and finally he very slowly set the box back down and turned to look at the window. The only sound – still – was the crackle of the fire, and Munver stood completely unmoving for almost a full minute before daring to make his way over to the front door. As he crept, he felt a sense of great anticipation building in his chest.

  After looking back one more time at Garrett, he then opened the door and carefully slipped outside. He shut the door, and then his footsteps could be heard crunching away across the snow until they faded into the distance and all that could be heard was the fire.

  Garrett continued to doze in the chair. The long journey, combined with the effects of the whiskey, had sent him into a great slumber, and he was dreaming now of his life back home with Mary. In the dream, he was back in the drawing room, back before all of this madness had begun. He was explaining the next purchase to her, telling her that it was absolutely necessary, and she was struggling to understand. Bibles stood stacked on a table between them, and Garrett was reading from them in the hope that a little scripture might help. This part was less dream and more memory, but soon the changes began to set in, and Garrett dreamed that Mary was surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of corpses. Even as his face remained still – save for an occasional flicker as he furrowed his brow – his dream was becoming a nightmare.

  Now the dead were c
hasing him. Their arms were longer than they should be, great long limbs that creaked as they stretched to grab hold of his body. He tried to pull away, but there were too many hands and they were coming from every direction. He could hear Mary screaming, but he couldn't see her; after a moment he heard her cries change, as if something was blocking his throat. As soon as he tried to turn and rush to her aid, however, he realized he was being dragged down by the corpses. He yelled at them, promising them each a coin if they'd just let go, but they told him in return that he was too late. That he'd failed the Lord.

  As the nightmare became worse and worse, Garrett's sleeping face began to twitch a little more frequently.

  A moment later, the front door clicked open and Munver carefully peered into the room.

  Once he was certain that Garrett was still asleep, Munver slipped into the cabin and crept over to the area where he usually skinned and cooked his food, and then he very carefully took a candle from a shelf and carried it to the hearth. Not even allowing himself to breathe, in case he woke Garrett, he leaned down and lit the candle against the flames, and then he crept to the door and slipped back out, pulling the door shut as he went.

  Still in the chair, Garrett continued to dream about all the dead bodies filling his home, and about Mary screaming far off in the distance. He was begging the corpses to show mercy, he was offering them all the coins in his possession, but they told him – with one voice – that all his work had been for nought. Godliness had broken down and the ground was collapsing beneath Garrett's feet. He felt a great hollowness in his soul as thousands of dead hands clawed him down into the abyss, and all he could do was scream at them that he'd give them each a coin if they'd just stay dead. This same desperate cry was repeating over and over.

  “I have coins for you all!” he was screaming in his mind. “Why do you forsake me now? Take your coins! Mary! Come to me, Mary! Where are you?”

  As the nightmare continued, Garrett's face twitched and he let out a faint murmur.

  A moment later the door opened again and Munver crept back into the house. The candle's flame had been extinguished by the snow, so he bent down and lit it again in the fireplace before heading back to the door.

  Suddenly Garrett murmured again.

  Munver froze and looked over at him, and then he felt a wave of relief as he saw that his visitor was still sleeping.

  This time, as he stepped outside, Munver used a piece of wood to shield the flame from the bad weather, and then he slowly shut the door again.

  Over by the hearth, Garrett's nightmare was becoming more vivid. His head turned slightly and he let out a low groan. In the nightmare, he was being pulled apart by dead souls, and they were all screeching that they had no use for his pathetic little coins.

  Seven

  Trampling across the snow, struggling to keep the flame alive despite the piece of wood he was using to provide cover, Munver tried to use his body to provide a little extra protection against the strong wind. He had to turn several times, shielding the flame from gusts that blow in from every direction, and once or twice he almost fell. The flame flickered and came close to being extinguished, but somehow it never quite died. This awkward dance continued for several minutes, before Munver finally managed to get all the way over to the back of the cart.

  The candle was still burning.

  Still taking great care to maintain the flame, Munver climbed up onto the cart's rearmost section, from which he'd already removed the covering to reveal the dead woman and most of the dead man.

  Wind was howling all around in the darkness, whipping the snow into a frenzy, but the side of the cart at least afford some extra protection.

  On his knees now, Munver shuffled between the woman's legs and then bent down, holding the candle's flame close to her frozen nether region. He could feel the warmth from the flame against his wrist but, as he waited, he began to realize that the woman's flesh wasn't un-thawing as quickly as he'd hoped. Truth be told, he'd expected that the process would be more or less instant, like melting an ice-cube. He had no idea how long Garrett would stay asleep, but he wanted to have his fun and then get back inside before he got caught. A lady-box was one thing, but for this one night he intended to have a real woman. He didn't mind her being dead, but he needed her not to be frozen.

  Stuart Munver was not a smart man, but he was by no means a simpleton. Nevertheless, he had assumed that if he thawed the woman out – or at least thawed part of her out – he could use her however he wished. He was by no means insensitive of the woman's wishes; rather, it never occurred to him in any way that what he planned was wrong. She was dead, so it never occurred to him that she would care. Had this possibility been drawn to his attention, he would certainly – though reluctantly – have refrained. Instead, he was unburdened by any doubts and all he could think about was the fact that the woman's thawed nether region would feel much more real and warm than the lady-box. It would feel, he assumed, like Angelica Graft.

  Shivering now in the cold night air, having forgotten to put his jacket back on, he nevertheless stared intently at the frozen mound of skin and curled hair. The process was taking much longer than he'd hoped and, when he reached out with a finger and checked the skin, he discovered that it felt just as hard as it had done earlier. He looked back toward the cabin, just to make sure that Garrett hadn't stirred, and then he returned to his mournful, hopeful vigil. As he did so, however, he couldn't help but mutter a few cuss words.

  Soon.

  Soon he'd get to feel the inside of a real woman.

  He'd be able to close his eyes and think of the eventual moment when – one day – Angelica Graft would be his. He'd have the most beautiful woman in all the world, and her wretched husband would be dishonored. The old bully deserved that and more, and Stuart Munver would be the one to give him a good pasting.

  Yet as the minutes passed, Munver had to acknowledge that the dead woman's nether region showed no inclination to thaw. Nothing seemed to be happening. He tapped again, and he quickly winced as he found that there had been no obvious progress. He held the candle closer, only to singe the side of his hand and have to withdraw. He tried a couple more times, at different angles, only to suffer the same result. Finally, with no other ideas, he balanced the piece of wood across the woman's crotch and carefully set the candle in place so that it could be left to burn unattended. He'd have to go back inside for a while, of course, and keep an eye on Garrett, but then he'd be able to come back out in a while and check on the candle's progress.

  Surely the dead woman's bits would thaw soon.

  As he turned to climb off the cart, however, he spotted something glinting beneath the dead man's hand. He hesitated, telling himself that all he'd seen had been a patch of ice, but then he saw the glint again and he realized that it had a different, warmer shade than the body's whiteness.

  He leaned closer and peered beneath the hand, and to his surprise he saw what appeared to be some kind of coin. Reaching out, he tried to slide the coin out from the hand, only to find that it seemed to be wedged fast. He pulled again and again, filled with an increasing hope that perhaps he'd found something valuable. He used his nails to scrape at the frozen hand, digging like a dog, but this failed to work. Frustrated, he started pulling again. Finally one of the fingers snapped clean away and he was able to wriggle the coin around until it slid out.

  Holding the prize up, he furrowed his brow as he realized that it was unlike any other coin he'd ever seen. He turned it around, but it definitely didn't seem to be from the local area. There was some text on the coin's surface, perhaps some numbers too, but these were too difficult to make out and – besides – he figured he most likely wouldn't be able to read them even if they were clear. Still, the coin was nice and large, and heavy too, and he felt that it had to be worth money. He held it in the palm of his hand, as snow continued to fall, and he began to feel more and more hopeful that his lucky day had finally arrived.

  Someone'll give me plen
ty for this, he told himself, beaming at the thought that he might finally have secured a stroke of luck. I'll be rich. Walter Graft can go to Hell and Angelica Graft will be mine.

  Still grinning at his good fortune, he reached out to pull the covering back over the two bodies, but at the last moment he realized that this would be a terrible idea. The covering might catch fire, and then the bodies would burn, and then Garrett would awaken and all manner of chaos would break out and the opportunity would be lost. No, covering the flame would be a bad idea indeed. Feeling very proud of himself for being so smart, he carefully pushed the covering aside before climbing fully off the back of the cart and heading back to the cabin. As he scurried, he kept close to the wall, like a rat.

  Eight

  Richard Garrett's eyes sprung open and he gasped as he leaned forward in the chair. Clutching the armrests, he stared straight ahead for a moment as he adjusted to the realization that he'd been dreaming. His heart was racing and it took a few seconds before he lost the sense that he was being dragged down by thousands of clawing hands. Finally he was able to push the dream aside, and he felt a rush of relief. Then, sensing a presence nearby, he turned to see Stuart Munver halfway through the door and frozen in place.

  “Nothing,” Munver said quickly.

  “What?”

  “I wasn't doing anything.”

  Garrett opened his mouth to question him further, but he couldn't quite get the words out.

  “I wasn't!” Munver hissed.

  Garrett's brow furrowed.

  Munver pulled the door shut and smiled, hoping to look innocent. The effect, however, was the reverse.

  “I didn't mean to wake you,” he continued, take a step to the side. “You looked so peaceful there, resting after your long day, that I thought it best to let you sleep. I was being considerate, you understand?”