The Purchase

by Amy Cross

  Some of the others had laughed, and Munver had laughed too, but now he began to realize that the man's advice had been good.

  “I've just gone a little crazy,” he said breathlessly. “It's only human. Another man would've lost his mind completely. In the circumstances, it's remarkable that I'm holding together as good as I am.”

  He waited, still holding the door shut, and he told himself that there would be no more knocking sounds. And, indeed, there were no more as he stayed in position and listened to the sound of the wind outside. He was braced for the knocks to return, but as the minutes went by he allowed himself ever so slowly to start relaxing just a little. Had the madness passed? His head felt very clear, very sharp, and he wondered whether the storm in his mind had passed.

  Finally, daring to hold the door shut with just one hand, he reached over and grabbed a spoon from one of the shelves, and then he forced the spoon into the slot alongside what was left of the wooden bolt. He gave the door a faint push and found that it held now, so he allowed himself to sit back slightly. The wood shook very slightly, but he knew that was just a result of the gale outside. It had been, what, five or six minutes since the last heavy knock?

  Please, he thought to himself, be over now.

  “You know what he wants,” a familiar voice said suddenly. It was Garrett's voice, coming from over Munver's shoulder. “You have to give it to him.”

  Fifteen

  Munver stayed right where he was, kneeling in front of the door. It had now been maybe ten minutes since the last knocking sound, and maybe four or five minutes since he'd thought he'd heard Garrett's voice, but he knew that both those things couldn't really have happened.

  Could they?

  It's not easy, keeping from going mad, he told himself. I've gotta stay strong.

  He stared straight ahead at the door. Every so often the wind caused the wood to rattle and shake slightly, and this actually made Munver feel better in some perverse way. It was something normal, something he understood, and he took it as a sign that maybe the natural order was doing right. Even the wind itself was comforting, and every blessed second of normality felt like a miracle.

  And then, eventually, he heard a faint creaking sound over on the far side of the cabin, and he knew full well that this was the sound of something moving in the chair.

  Slowly, forcing himself to face the truth, he turned and saw Garrett's body still in the chair, still silhouetted against – and looking out through – the window. A moment later, Munver saw the glint of the knife's handle still sticking out from the back of the chair.

  Telling himself that he had to stay strong, Munver stared for a moment at the chair before turning and starting to crawl over to where he'd dropped the rifle. He was still trembling with fear, but he figured that was only natural. He'd been through a lot during that night, and he reckoned he wasn't going to miss the cabin when he set off in the morning.

  “What exactly do you think is gonna happen?” Garrett's voice said suddenly.

  Gasping, Munver grabbed the rifle and pulled back against the wall, and he aimed the gun directly at the chair.

  “You know what he wants,” Garrett's voice continued, “and you're only -”

  “Shut up!” Munver yelled, waving the rifle around but not firing. Not yet. “You're dead, so shut up!”

  At this, Garrett's voice began to chuckle.

  The back of Garrett's head remained completely still, but the sound sure seemed like it was coming from round the front.

  “You're not real,” Munver said through clenched teeth. “I sure ain't gonna go crazy now, not when I'm so close to going back and showing them all.”

  “You won't be going anywhere unless you make this right,” Garrett's voice replied. “Did you think those coins were just decoration? Just an oversight on my part? Didn't it occur to you that maybe I squeezed them into those cold, dead hands before I ever set off along this road? Didn't it occur to you that maybe I had a good reason for doing that?”

  “I'm not listening,” Munver said, shaking his head. “I'm not letting you into my head.”

  “There are some dead folks who stick around,” Garrett's voice continued. “Or rather, who insist on coming back. I first saw it during the war. A priest told me I had a special inclination to noticing this sort of thing, that maybe if I survived the fighting it'd be a sign that I had a job to do for the Lord. Well, that priest's long since dead, but I got to thinking that he was right.”

  Munver shook his head.

  “You weren't in the fighting,” Garrett's voice added. “You'd have been too young. You can't imagine what it was like, having men screaming and dying all around you. It got so bad, I couldn't tell the difference between wood snapping and a man's body splintering in half. But somewhere in the middle of all that, I found a new clarity that I've carried with me ever since. A new role in life.”

  “I can't hear you,” Munver gasped breathlessly. “You're not talking.”

  “The coins are important,” Garrett's voice said. “Not to all folk. Just some. I don't know exactly what the coins are for or where they come from. I'm not saying they meet some boatman on the other side and they need to pay him, although that's surely how it seems sometimes. What I'm saying is that some certain souls need the coins. It must be something to do with how they lived their lives, and for how determined they are to come back. And me, I seemed to have a knack for knowing where to find these folks. A God-given ability, you might say.”

  “Shut up, shut up,” Munver sneered, aiming the rifle and almost firing at the back of Garrett's head. He only held back because he recognized the absurdity of wasting a bullet on a dead man.

  “They're always poor,” the voice continued. “They always died violently, or in sin. Those are a few of the things they always have in common. Beyond that, I'm not sure. But the Lord has been leading me to them for the past few years, across several states. Sometimes I have to steal the bodies, other times I can persuade people to let me take them. And sometimes, like this occasion, I have to make a purchase and buy them. Then I take them home, and my wife and I have worked out what's the best thing to do with them next. You can't interrupt that process, Mr. Munver. I need you to give the man his coin back.”

  “None of this is true,” Munver replied.

  “Really?” Garrett's voice chuckled again. “You're telling a dead man that he's wrong about death?”

  “You're not really talking to me!” Munver yelled angrily. “You're all in my head!”

  “I don't know what happens when a coin's taken from one of them,” the voice said. “It's never happened before, not on my watch. I imagine he'll be mighty angry, but maybe you can make amends if you just give it back to him. Of course, you didn't just take the coin, did you? You did other things, things there might be no coming back from. You're a disgusting little creep, Mr. Munver, and I'm not sure there are any amends you can make that'll save your skin. But I'm telling you how you can at least try.”

  “No!” Munver said, lowering the rifle and then sticking his fingers in his ears. “I'm not hearing any of this.”

  “He's out there waiting,” Garrett's voice replied, and Munver could still just about hear him. “He's not going away. You can't sit it out in here forever, so what are you going to do?”

  Munver squeezed his eyes tight shut and pushed his fingers deeper, harder into his ears. Yet he could still hear Garrett's voice a moment later when the dead man spoke again.

  “You'd better pray that he shows you some mercy, Mr. Munver. If he doesn't, I don't know what'll happen to you but I know it'll be -”

  “SHUT UP!” Munver screamed, opening his eyes, grabbing the rifle and firing twice at the back of Garrett's head. The first shot missed and shattered a pane in the window, and the second shot hit the side of Garrett's head and blew a chunk of skull and flesh clean away.

  Munver got to his feet and stepped forward, taking a moment to aim a little better, but when he pulled the trigger he felt only a
faint, impotent clicking sound.

  He tried again, but he was all out of shots, and he knew that there was no more ammunition anywhere in the cabin.

  Breathlessly, Munver stared at the back of Garrett's half-exploded head.

  “Better get thinking, boy,” Garrett's voice said, with a hint of a chuckle in his tone. “Time's a-ticking'...”

  He let out a faint, amused whistle, and then he fell silent.

  Munver didn't dare move, not for several minutes. The wind sounded so much louder, now that it could blow straight through the shattered window pane, and flecks of snow were starting to drift into the cabin and fall to the floor. Staring at the window, Munver watched for any hint of movement, but all he saw were swirls of snow dancing in the gale. The night was still dark, and the cabin's roof still shuddered sometimes as the wind began to swell, and the door rattled a little in its frame, but Munver barely even dared to breathe. Fear had exploded all throughout his body like a plant earlier, and now that plant's leaves and roots were all dying, threatening to take the rest of his soul with them.

  Sixteen

  After several hours, glimmers of morning light began to pick out the edges of the broken glass in the window.

  Stuart Munver, who still hadn't dared move since he'd heard Garrett's voice, remained standing with his rifle aimed forward. The weapon was no use, not anymore, but it still felt good to have its weight in his hands. He told himself that if the worst happened, if he really needed to fire the rifle, then maybe just maybe one last shot would miraculously materialize for him. Deep down, he knew the idea was foolish, but it was the only hope to which he could still cling, so he clung to it desperately.

  The gold coin was still in his pocket.

  His eyes hadn't once moved during the night, save for blinking. He'd been staring at the window, waiting in case a figure appeared on the other side, but so far there had been nothing. He'd been listening, too, to the door behind him, just in case there were any more knocks or any sounds that indicated somebody trying to gain entry. This, too, had failed to happen, although he couldn't yet bring himself to believe that he was alone.

  And then there was Garrett's body.

  Munver hadn't looked directly at the dead man, not since blasting the side of his head clean away. He was just relieved that the relentless, mocking voice had finally stopped speaking to him. That had been part of his madness, he was sure, and its absence now meant that he was clearly recovering from whatever mania had temporarily gripped him during the night. That was what he told himself, anyway, although he could hear Garrett's last words still echoing in the back of his mind, still teasing and taunting him:

  “Better get thinking, boy. Time's a-ticking'...”

  Why wouldn't that infernal dead man just shut up in his thoughts?

  And then there had been that final, haunting whistle.

  As he stood and stared at the window, and as he realized he could just about make out the cart in the rising morning light, Munver realized that it was getting past time for him to head out of the valley. The sun was rising behind the tree-line to the east, casting a faint glow that was only getting stronger with each passing minute. Snow was still falling, but not with the same ferocity as before, and in the past half hour the gale had noticeably weakened. Conditions still weren't ideal, Munver knew that, but at least it was looking possible for a man to make it out of the valley and then reach the main trail, and from there he was certain he could get to the nearest town. And then...

  Then riches.

  Wealth.

  Glory.

  It was all within his grasp. All he had to do was get away from the cabin and reach civilization. And, it seemed, keep his mind clear of all the crazy fantasies that had built up during the night.

  Finally, suddenly, surprising even himself – Stuart Munver began to laugh.

  The laugh became a giggle, and the giggle became a throaty roar, and eventually he had to step back and lean against the wall. This fit of laughter was taking him over now, causing his whole body to roar, and he laughed and laughed even as he wondered why any of this was happening. He supposed that it must be relief, and slowly he slid down until he was sitting on the floor with the rifle resting on his lap, and he allowed himself to keep laughing even as his belly began to hurt. He knew he probably sounded insane, but he figured there was no harm, not with there being no-one else about. Besides, better to get it out now, before setting out on the long journey home.

  “Mr. Garrett,” he said finally, once he could speak again, with tears of joy streaming down his face, “I am so very glad that you turned up here yesterday evening. I know things haven't quite gone too well between us, but really, I will never forget you. I might even raise a drink to you, once I'm rich and fabulous.”

  Taking a deep breath, and feeling a rush of relief, he was still smiling as he got to his feet. He rested the rifle against the wall, then he wiped some dried blood from around his broken nose, and then he stepped over and took a look at Garrett's face. His shot during the night had blown away about a quarter of one side of the man's skull, taking an ear and an eye and part of the mouth. As he looked at Garrett's features, however, Munver couldn't help but notice two things. One was that the remaining half of the face looked completely undamaged, and the other was that the remaining part of the lips – caught by the ever-rising sun – seemed to be locked in the process of making a whistle.

  Munver's smile faded a little, but only for a moment, only until he remembered that he was due to set off and that with luck he could be a rich man inside of a week.

  “Sorry,” he said, patting the side of Garrett's arm, “but I ain't got time to bury you. You'll just have to make do with that chair.”

  He brushed some fragments of bone and hair from the dead man's shoulder.

  “There,” he added. “I've prettied you up as best I can. It'll just have to be enough.” He turned to walk away, but at the last moment he remembered one other thing. “Oh, and sorry about pissing on you last night. I guess I kinda got carried away, but you... Well, you deserved it just a little. You'd have to admit that.”

  For the next hour or so, he busied himself with the task of preparing for his journey. There was no point taking the pots and pans, he supposed, and he wanted to travel light. He wouldn't be taking his lady-box, either, seeing as how he wouldn't need it once he'd seduced Angelica Graft. Every so often, his mind wandered and he thought back to the missing man from the cart, but he didn't let that situation trouble him unduly. There was some explanation, he was sure, and Munver had never been the most curious of men. Perhaps the man had simply slid off and got covered in snow, or maybe Munver's brief moment of madness had caused him to hallucinate the man's disappearance. Smiling as he finished packing for the road, he figured that soon he'd be out of the valley and back in his hometown, and nothing at the cabin would matter one jot to him anymore.

  Getting to his feet, he realized he was ready to go.

  And then, spotting the saw, he remembered that there was still one final task that he needed to complete. During the night, the idea of going out there and sawing the woman's hand off had seemed absolutely terrifying. Indeed, it amused him now to think of just how scared he'd been, but he figured the night sometimes did that to a man. Now, with daylight spreading further and further with each passing moment, all the fear had faded away and he reached down and grabbed the saw, figuring that two gold coins would definitely be better than one.

  He took one last look around the cabin, marveling at how long he'd spent living alone in such a small space, and then he headed to the door. He removed the spoon and the remains of the wooden bolt, and then he pulled the door open. For a moment, he worried that he might find the frozen man standing outside, but of course that wasn't the case at all. There was no-one, and Munver smiled at his own superstitious foolishness as he stepped outside, pulled the door shut, and headed around to the cart.

  Seventeen

  “Let's be having you then, lady,” Mun
ver said as he set his bag on the cart and then climbed up, saw in hand, and prepared to get to work.

  The first thing he noticed, in the dawn's early light, was that the dead man was still missing. That caused a moment of concern, but only a moment. He quickly reminded himself that soon he'd be long gone from the valley, and that the disappearance of the man's corpse wouldn't matter in the long run. No, he had bigger thoughts to think. In some ways, Stuart Munver was like a dog, choosing to not worry about things that didn't seem to concern him, so he focused on getting into position and then setting the saw's blade against the dead woman's wrist.

  “Sorry about this, M'am,” he said cheerfully, “but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.”

  He liked that phrase.

  He'd heard other man in town say that a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, men who were respected. Saying such things now, he felt a little more like them.

  Well, soon he'd be even better than them.

  “Sure is true,” he muttered. “Yes, M'am, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.”

  With that, he began to saw through her wrist, although he found to his irritation that the blade really wasn't penetrating very well. He worked for a good few minutes before stopping to check on his progress, and he found that he was barely a quarter of an inch through the frozen flesh. This wasn't exactly encouraging news, although he supposed that once he was halfway through he might be able to snap the rest loose, but he told himself that in this instance thinking wouldn't be nearly as much use as doing, so he set himself back to work.

  As he sawed, he felt the cart shake slightly beneath his knees, and he heard the wooden joins creaking. After a few more minutes, however, he found that he'd made no more progress than before. He adjusted the saw and tried cutting at a different spot and then – when that didn't work – he tried sawing directly through the fingers. All the while, he was muttering a growing list of cusses under his breath, and his sense of irritation was getting much stronger.