The Clearing

by Tom Deady

  Did I just say that? Hannah’s words carried equal amounts of righteousness and bitterness. Despite her fluttering heart, she held Mama Bayole’s stare.

  “Sure, I remember you, girl. You were so tired that day, yes, you was. Looked like you was gonna just lay yo’ head down and close those pretty eyes. See you feeling better?” She regarded Hannah with a knowing look.

  Benson spoke up, “Mrs. Bayole, have you seen Ashley Wallace?”

  Mama Bayole pulled her eyes from me and smiled again at Officer Benson. “No, sir. Ain’t seen no one until you folks. I’ll be sure ta keep an eye out.”

  Officer Benson stood and tucked his notebook back in his front shirt pocket. “Actually, I was thinking we might look around?” He motioned to the appliance graveyard on her lawn. “Lots of places for a kid to hide, if she had a mind to. I’m sure a respectable farm like this has some outbuildings—a barn, or some sheds? Maybe we could just, you know, walk around, call her name?”

  Mama Bayole struggled to her feet, placing a hand on the small of her back. Hannah couldn’t help but think it was exaggerated. “You can go ahead and play hide-a-seek, sure thing. I’ll go fix some iced tea and when you finish, you can come in and wet your whistle, look around the farmhouse too. I don’t get many visitors and it would do an old lady some good ta entertain proper.”

  Officer Benson tipped his cap and said that would be fine. They left the porch and watched Mama Bayole retreat into the house.

  Hannah followed Officer Benson and Dad around to the back of the property. A handful of chickens scattered when they rounded the corner, squawking at the disturbance. Hannah spotted a barn, a small chicken coop, and two sheds.

  “Let’s check the barn first. Everybody stay together, and nobody touches anything. Clear?” Benson’s tone left no room for debate.

  They nodded and crossed the tangled crabgrass that made up the yard. The two-story barn was an eyesore and probably a safety hazard. The door hung on rust-worn, broken hinges and the clapboard was rotted through in several places. The swayback roof looked one New Hampshire winter away from collapse.

  They started around the outside perimeter of the building, seeing nothing more interesting than the remains of a tractor and some farming equipment that belonged in a museum. They arrived at the front of the barn, and Hannah glanced at the farmhouse. A curtain twitched in one of the downstairs windows—Mama Bayole was watching their every move.

  They stepped over the threshold into the barn, pausing to allow eyes to adjust to the dim light. The whispery flutter of wings above them meant swallows were roosting in the old building.

  The inside of the barn was in worse shape than the exterior. Hannah gagged at the reek of stale hay and rotten wood. One entire side was just the remains of horse stalls in various states of disrepair, from broken fencing to complete collapse. The other was a maze of junk stacked floor to ceiling.

  They wound their way carefully through decades’ worth of old furniture, boxes, saddles and other riding gear, and just about anything else a person could own and dispose of. One wrong move would send the entire contents of the barn tumbling down around them like dominos.

  Nobody spoke until they had gone up and down each row, returning to the center of the barn. They congregated around a rickety wooden ladder that led to what used to be a hay loft, she assumed.

  Benson looked up for a long moment and sighed. “I guess it’s me.”

  He stepped toward the ladder and placed a foot on the first rung. The crack of the wood snapping echoed through the empty building, sending the swallows into a frenzy. Hannah put a hand on Benson’s arm.

  “Let me go, I’m way lighter.”

  Benson looked at the broken rung, then at Dad, who nodded.

  Benson turned to her. “Be careful, understand?”

  She took the flashlight from Benson and without thinking about it, stepped over the broken rung and began climbing. She kept as close to the edge of each rung as possible, knowing they would be weaker in the middle. Splinters burrowed into her hands as she climbed. The wood under her feet was spongey and with each step, she pictured her body plunging to the barn floor below. Thinking of Ashley, alone and afraid, was all she needed to keep going.

  At the top, she scrambled to the relative safety of the plywood floor. She again heard the flapping of wings but didn’t see any birds. Hannah wondered if the sound had been bats all along.

  Random shafts of light crisscrossed the loft through holes in the walls and roof, a frenzy of dust danced crazily in each one. She clicked on the flashlight and shone it on the floor, checking to see if the boards looked strong enough to walk on.

  “Everything okay, honey?” Dad called from below.

  Hannah jumped and nearly stumbled backward through the opening.

  “So far, so good,” she hollered down.

  The air was thicker up here, oppressive in its heat. The stench of rotten hay and something else, some underlying foul smell Hannah couldn’t identify, made it hard to breathe.

  Death.

  She shone the flashlight around but quickly realized there was nothing to see.

  Decomposed hay and bird crap littered the floor, some old ropes and pulleys hung from the support beams, and birds’ nests crouched in every rafter. There was nowhere to hide.

  “I’m coming down!”

  At the bottom of the ladder, she jumped to the barn floor. She handed the flashlight back to Officer Benson and wiped her hands on her shirt.

  “Nothing up there but a lot of old hay and even more birds’ nests.”

  She followed the others out of the barn, blinking at the brightness of the day. They made their way to the first shed and it only took a few minutes to realize it was another dead end. It looked to be only about ten feet by ten feet and was filled with run-of-the-mill farm and garden tools—rakes of all sizes, shovels, a wheelbarrow with no wheel, and a few deadly looking sickles hanging on the walls.

  The next shed was larger and newer. It had a ramp leading up to the door and a recent model tractor inside. Oddly, there was also what looked like a souped-up golf cart. Work gloves hung neatly on pegs and more tools lined the walls, mostly saws, axes and a shiny new chainsaw that chilled Hannah, bringing memories of too many horror movies she’d watched with Ashley.

  As if reading her mind, Benson said, “It looks like a horror movie starter kit in here.”

  They laughed. Hannah knew the laughter was forced, a nervous reaction. Whistling past the graveyard. All her mother’s old sayings were coming back to life.

  They made a cursory check of the chicken coop, but it too was in such disrepair that there was nowhere to hide a single chicken, much less Ashley Wallace. Benson stopped on the way to the back porch. Hannah followed his gaze to a ramshackle bulkhead off the back corner.

  They walked gingerly up the stairs one at a time, afraid their combined weight would be too much for the decaying wood. Mama Bayole waved them into the house from the back door.

  Hannah hesitated. What if she casts her spell on all three of us once we go in?

  Dad held the door, giving her a questioning look until she followed.

  Once inside, Hannah immediately became lightheaded. She was psyching herself out and struggling to stay calm. Mama Bayole ushered them into the small kitchen and motioned for them to sit. The table and chairs were straight out of every seventies sitcom she’d watched with her dad. Stainless steel legs with yellow vinyl seat covers and the tabletop was some sort of Formica variant popular back then. The cabinets were plain wood, thick with coat after coat of paint. Plates filled the sink and flies buzzed around a cat’s dish on the floor. There was no cat in sight. She watched the flies land on the side of the bowl, then take flight again, their somnolent hum too loud. She dragged her gaze away and shook her head to clear it.

  Mama Bayole brought over a pitcher of iced tea and four glasses, eyeing Hannah with that cunning gaze. She filled each glass then sat at the table.

  “Did you find that p
o’ white girl out there?”

  Her tone was mocking, and anger replaced Hannah’s anxiety. Officer Benson spoke before she had a chance.

  “No, ma’am. If we haven’t already put you out too much, would you mind if we looked around the house a bit? We can’t without your permission, of course, so please don’t feel like you have to.”

  Mama Bayole waved dismissively at Benson. “Oh, go on. What’s an old woman like me got to hide? You think I’m smuggling dirty magazines or something?”

  Benson obliged with a laugh and stood. Hannah noticed he hadn’t drunk a sip of his iced tea, none of them had.

  We’re waiting for her to drink first.

  Dad followed Benson to the living room. The house was small and the hallway narrow. Claustrophobic. It took no more than a few minutes to confirm the house was empty.

  “Where’s the door to the cellar?”

  Benson’s tone was casual, but Hannah detected a note of suspicion.

  “Basement’s been closed off since I bought the place. The wood stove heats the place fine in the winter and the last owner moved the fuse box up to the front closet and the water heater too.”

  “What about the bulkhead?”

  Benson was in full cop mode now. He sensed, like Hannah did, that something was off about the old woman’s story.

  Mama Bayole began laughing—a grating, cackling sound that set Hannah’s teeth on edge.

  “You go ‘head and try that ole bulkhead. If you can even get the doors to pull, the spiders ‘ill get you.”

  Benson smiled but there was no humor in it. His eyes remained deadly serious. He’d caught a scent and was going to follow it. “Well, that sounds like a challenge, Mrs. Bayole. I think I might just go do battle with those spiders.”

  Mama Bayole’s laugh dried up and her eyes narrowed. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.” Her tone was flat, humorless. Almost threatening.

  Hannah and her dad followed Benson out the back door and down the listing steps. Hannah didn’t know if Mama Bayole was lying about the cellar or not, but she was certainly telling the truth about the bulkhead.

  The wood was splintered and rotting, the paint faded to an unrecognizable color. The hinges and handle were nothing but rust. She didn’t doubt spiders would be there if they were able to budge the door.

  Benson reached down and yanked the handle, stumbling backward when it snapped off in his hand. He caught his balance before taking a comical fall on his butt, and Hannah was a little disappointed. She faked a cough to cover her smirk.

  He stepped back up to the bulkhead and wedged his hands under the lopsided door. Dad moved in next to him and did the same. Benson counted three and they pulled.

  The door came away from the frame with a wet ripping sound, revealing a stairway piled with old boards and cinder blocks, and half-filled in with dirt. There was a door at the bottom of the stairs that once led to the cellar, but there was no getting past the debris, not without a couple hours of back-breaking work to clear the way.

  “Well, I guess that settles that.” Benson sighed and turned to Hannah. “I think it’s time we call this in and make it an official missing persons report.”

  Pain. Darkness. Silence.

  Ashley blinked but nothing changed. The pain remained, the darkness was impenetrable, and the silence unbroken.

  As panic took its icy grip on her, another sense kicked in. The smell was horrible, some gruesome mix of pain, blood, sweat, and hopelessness. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and she tried to sit up. It wasn’t the explosive agony in her head that stopped her, though it was bad enough to—it was the feel of the chains bound to her wrists.

  She squeezed her eyes shut tight, taking in a deep breath despite the stench. She refused to fall victim to fear. Whatever had happened was bad, but through the foggy headache she couldn’t remember anything, but fear would only make it worse. She pictured a brick in her mind, then another. With each breath she took, more bricks built up her wall, and fear was on the other side of it. She remained still, eyes shut, breathing slowly and building. When the wall was complete, she opened her eyes and forced her thoughts backward, before the pain.

  She was in the library, talking to the blogger who wasn’t really the blogger. That, she had figured out pretty quickly. She’d done her best to get evidence, snapping pictures with her phone and turning on the voice recorder.

  She smiled in the darkness, praising her own cleverness. Then what?

  We have Hannah.

  Ashley gasped at the memory. She closed her eyes again, visualizing the wall. It was solid, holding back the terror that relentlessly tried to get through.

  She’d agreed to go with the fake blogger to show him where the foot was. He’d promised that was all he wanted, and he would let Hannah go. They’d left the library together. Then the darkness had begun.

  Ashley’s head throbbed. The more she tried to think, the worse the pain. Fight through it. She looked at her wall, so strong, keeping all the bad thoughts and crippling fear away from her.

  She spent the next few minutes trying to feel her way around in the darkness. She was on a crusty mattress that rested on a bed frame of steel or some sort of metal. The wall she touched with her foot felt like rock.

  Am I in a cave?

  The idea held a horrible power. Ashley pictured it as a battering ram, bashing her wall repeatedly.

  Another memory of the day crept into her mind, fleeting and murky, but something to focus on, to cling to like a life preserver. It was the woods, where she and Hannah spent a lot of time, usually with Scout tagging along. But this had been different. There had been no jingling collar or happy barking, and there had been no Hannah.

  “Find the spot or you’ll end up on the wrong side of the dirt yourself.”

  Ashley started, the memory coming clearer, like a shape through the fog. The guy had taken her to find the foot. She remembered stumbling around in the woods, his hand on her upper arm like a vise, sometimes stopping her from falling, other times shoving her forward. Had they found it?

  They must have, otherwise they’d still be out there looking.

  There was something else, but it wouldn’t come. Her stomach clenched and her heart pounded in her temples. She willed the last piece of the memory to come, but it wouldn’t. She tried to stop, to think of something else, anything else, but it was no use.

  She glanced inwardly at her wall. It was still there, but was that mortar crumbling between the bricks?

  She began to scream for help. She told herself it was the logical thing to do, but that voice seemed to come from the other side of the wall. She screamed forever, until her throat ached, and her mind went numb, and she lost consciousness.

  Ashley is on a crowded beach with Hannah. It is daytime, but very, very dark, the sun hidden behind the blackest, gloomiest clouds Ashley has ever seen. There were people running around and laughing, but Ashley can’t hear them. She looks toward the beach, sees the waves crashing, but they, too, are silent. She tries to point but sees her hands are tangled somehow in her beach towel. The clouds part and a blinding shaft of sunlight blinds her...

  She woke up. It wasn’t sunlight blinding her, but light from where someone had opened the door to her prison. The shape was silhouetted, and Ashley was unable to see who it was.

  Then the light glinted off the something in the person’s hand. It was a hypodermic needle, and it was moving toward her shoulder. She closed her eyes and saw her wall come tumbling down.

  Hannah sat in the living room while Dad put on a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Officer Benson tried to call the station on his cell but, of course, didn’t have signal. He went out to the car to radio it in.

  Dad returned to the living room and went to the window, then turned to face her. “We have to tell him everything. You know that, right?”

  Hannah waited, expecting more, hoping for more, so she could think for a minute longer. “What about—”

  “Hannah, stop it. Ashley is missing. She
may be in serious danger. Everything, understand?”

  His words hit her like a slap, and she recoiled at his tone. Is he blaming me for something?

  “Dad...”

  Hannah gulped in a breath and broke down, sobbing. It was all too much. She shouldn’t have to make such adult decisions. Why didn’t I just call this off instead of letting Ashley talk me into continuing?

  The thought of Ashley, alone and scared, maybe hurt, crushed her. She refused to let her thoughts take the next step.

  Dad was next to her, holding her, telling her to calm down. Hannah noticed he wasn’t saying everything would be all right.

  “I’ll tell him everything, but without the phone we have no evidence. Dad, what happened to Jacob? He wouldn’t just leave?”

  “I asked Officer Benson to send a car to his house to check on him.” Dad replied.

  Hannah took in a shaky breath. What have I dragged Jacob into? Her whole body was trembling, and her face and hands were all tingly. She tried to speak but her throat was closing. Then the room began to shrink and tilt to one side. Blackness filled her peripheral vision. She heard Dad calling her name from far away, like he was at the other end of a long, dark tunnel.

  Then everything went dark.

  Ashley and I are at Hampton Beach. The day is hot and sunny. A breeze blows in from the water. Waves crash. Kids are running around, playing football and tossing frisbees. Ashley watches people walking by with a critical eye. She turns to me and says, “Is there a four-tattoo minimum to walk on this beach?” We both laugh. I reach into the cooler and pull out and old-fashioned bottle of Coke. It’s one of the ones with the green glass. The label is hanging off from soaking in the water. I put it to my forehead, and it is blissfully cool...

  Something cool touched Hannah’s forehead and she tried to open her eyes. She was holding a bottle of soda to her head. No, that wasn’t right. She tried again and squinted, able to make out Dad’s concerned face. She blinked and her confusion began to clear. She was lying on the couch. Dad was holding a wet facecloth to her head. Not a bottle of soda.