Desires of the Dead

by Kimberly Derting

  Lame or not, no one asked any more questions; they seemed to accept her story.

  Violet still felt distracted by the echo, despite the distance that now separated her from it. For now, though, all she could do was try to ignore it.

  When they decided it was time to put dinner together, Mike and Jay went outside, to a small storage shed out back, to get more wood for the fire.

  “Is your dad gonna be here for dinner?” Claire asked Megan, who was doing her best to remain inconspicuous in the open space of the cabin.

  Megan simply shook her head in response, barely making eye contact as she answered.

  Chelsea cast a questioning look in Violet’s direction. “Do you know where he is?” she pried, even though it was evident that the girl was uncomfortable.

  Violet recognized Megan’s discomfort. It seemed to radiate off of her. She didn’t want to be noticed; she didn’t want to be included. She hovered, wordlessly, soundlessly, on the periphery, existing in quiet solitude.

  She’s so sad, Violet thought. Sad and lonely. Violet wondered if she’d always been that way.

  “He’s in town. He’ll probably be out late.” Megan practically whispered the words.

  “What does he do, hang out at a bar all night?” Claire attempted to joke.

  Megan looked up at Claire, her face serious. “Sometimes,” she responded.

  Mike came in then, unwittingly shattering the strange hush that had fallen over the girls. Jay followed right behind; each of them had their arms piled high with logs. A wheelbarrow with more logs sat beside the back door, and Violet and Chelsea both jumped up to help them, stacking the wood neatly beside the hearth.

  It was a convenient diversion from the awkwardness caused by Megan’s starkly honest answer.

  So what did that mean, exactly, about their father? That he was a drinker? An alcoholic? That the kids were frequently left on their own to fend for themselves?

  It would explain Megan’s ease in the kitchen and her isolating demeanor, wouldn’t it? That she and Mike were used to taking care of themselves?

  Violet’s shame deepened.

  Dinner was simple: grilled cheese sandwiches and potato chips. Of course, it was Megan who had to fire up the stove-top. And Megan, again, who managed to grill the sandwiches without burning them. Chelsea’s attempt didn’t end quite so expertly, and her sandwich was more charred than grilled. Violet’s was even less admirable. Jay fared better, making something that was at least edible. But Megan proved to be something of a culinary whiz. Or at least a grilled-cheese-sandwich whiz.

  So Jay helped Megan at the stove, and that was the only time Violet saw Megan going out of her way to interact with any one of them. She asked him quiet questions while they worked, and she smiled hesitantly when she responded to his playful banter.

  It reminded Violet of why she’d suspected Megan of stalking her in the first place. Besides all her other suspicions, it was obvious that Megan had a little crush on Jay. Maybe more than a little one. And Violet felt immediately guilty for even entertaining the thought again.

  She knew it hadn’t been Megan.

  Violet and Claire set the table while Jay and Megan made dinner. Mike and Chelsea “tended to the fire,” which turned out to be equivalent to Violet and Jay “doing homework,” so when they were called to get their plates, they were glassy-eyed and distracted.

  After dinner, Mike and Chelsea were assigned to clean up the mess, which actually meant “cleaning up the mess,” since they hadn’t done anything to help with preparation. Everyone else went to sit in front of the fire.

  Violet continued to feel pulled by whatever she’d discovered beneath the cover of the trees, buried under the frozen layers of ice and snow. She wondered briefly how she was going to resolve this predicament . . . it was an animal she couldn’t get to, couldn’t rebury. She still didn’t understand why the draw to find some was so much stronger than others, why some creatures, like the deer by the roadside, could let her pass while others wanted so badly to be found that they continued to lure her, long after she should have left the radius of their reach.

  She hoped beyond hope that the need to find this body would simply fade over time, releasing her eventually from its indefinable grip.

  It was already past nine o’clock by the time they were finished cleaning up and were settling in for the night. Outside the snow had stopped falling, and even though the sky was dark, the ground shimmered eerily, capturing strands of light and reflecting them like tiny pieces of glass. It created a ghostly backdrop.

  They had rearranged the furniture and spread their sleeping bags around the floor in front of the fireplace. There was one bedroom, which Violet presumed was where Megan would sleep, since that was where she’d been hiding earlier, and a small overhead loft, where she guessed Mike’s dad stayed. When he was there.

  But, even though she had a bedroom, Megan didn’t retreat again. She stayed with the group, lingering on the fringes, sitting without making a sound in a chair as far away as she could get from them and still be considered in the same room.

  As often as she could, Violet tried to include Megan in their conversations. But Megan was reluctant, answering in as few words as possible and then falling silent again, stubbornly evading Violet’s attempts to befriend her.

  When it grew late, one by one they began finding their way into their sleeping bags. Violet crawled into hers, beside Jay, and eventually Megan went down the short hallway to her bedroom.

  Conversation dwindled, and then disappeared into silence, until all that remained was the crackling of the fading fire.

  Chapter 30

  The rain woke her, but it was the dull ache that kept Violet from falling back to sleep. It reached up through her neck, gripping the base of her skull with sinewy fingers.

  And with it, something else caught her attention. A light that intruded on the night.

  It saturated her eyelids, no matter how tightly she held them shut. But it wasn’t the light itself that forced her into awareness. It was the pattern. The discontinuity of it.

  It was flashing.

  An icy chill swept over her as that realization dawned, and Violet struggled against the sudden urge to panic. Hard as it was, she forced herself not to react. She lay there, unmoving, pretending not to be awake.

  There is an explanation, she chanted inwardly, repeating the words over and over. There had to be a rational explanation.

  Footsteps shuffled across the wooden floor, and Violet held her breath, listening to them, following them in her mind. She thought about waking Jay, but she was too afraid to breathe, let alone move.

  And even though the pain in her head was less intense than before, she recognized it immediately. It was clear, unmistakable.

  It was the echo from the woods. Or rather the imprint, coming from the person responsible for burying whatever Violet had found today. But that wasn’t all. There was something other than the light and the pain that Violet couldn’t quite pinpoint.

  She heard the footsteps stop in the kitchen, and the jangling of keys as they clattered onto the countertop.

  Violet slowly—so, so slowly—pried her eyelids apart, her pulse clamoring wildly as she tried to maintain the pretense that she was still asleep. Every movement she made felt obvious and overdone, and she was afraid that whoever was in there would notice her. Lying awake, trying to steal a glimpse.

  The flashing continued, making it difficult to remain still, as her body physically reacted to each pulse of light. Her head pounded incessantly.

  When her eyes finally opened, she saw a man. Or at least, she saw the back of him, tall and thick, still wearinga heavy red-and-black-checked wool jacket. He swayed slightly, even though he was standing in place, his hand resting on the edge of the counter. And from where she was lying, Violet could smell the thick scents of stale tobacco and beer that he carried on him.

  He turned then, staggering over his own clunky boots, and Violet lowered her lashes, waiting for
several breaths to be sure he hadn’t spotted her there, and when she looked again, she saw a face she recognized instantly.

  It was Mike’s face.

  Or what she imagined Mike might look like as a weathered, middle-aged man.

  It was his father, Ed Russo.

  And the light flickering from his skin was unnaturally intense, painfully brilliant. Still, it might have been bearable, had Violet not known the cause of it.

  She remembered the night she’d first awakened to that flashing glow, and she wondered how a man—how this man—could be responsible for the death of the small cat she’d discovered at her house.

  And why . . . ?

  The questions both haunted and terrified her.

  And now what? Now they were here, in this remote mountain cabin, together? How could this be a coincidence?

  She didn’t know what she should do now. She felt trapped by the circumstances—the weather, her location, her proximity to this killer. She didn’t have any way to reach the outside world, not without going into town to call for help, and she didn’t think it would be wise to go alone.

  So what were her other options? To wake Jay? To tell the others that Mike’s dad had killed a cat and left it in her yard for her to find?

  How would she explain that? Why would he have done something like that in the first place? And why Violet? As far as she knew, this was the first time she was laying eyes on him.

  And then there was the note. And the phone calls. Did she really think that this man, Mike’s father, was responsible for those too?

  Besides, he certainly didn’t seem aware of her now, didn’t seem to care that she was right there.

  Her head was spinning—reeling—and the relentless ache was making it harder and harder for Violet to concentrate. She felt dizzy. But worse, there was something more now, something she could no longer ignore.

  From the moment that she’d been awakened, the moment that this man had stepped into the room with her, Violet had been overwhelmed by the compelling urge to go back out into the woods.

  Back to the echo.

  Violet stayed still until long after silence descended over the cabin once more, long after Mike’s father had gone up to the loft and she heard him settling in for the night.

  And then she waited even longer, just to be certain, before she slowly, cautiously, eased herself up from her sleeping bag, trying not to disturb the others around her. She didn’t want to wake Jay; she knew he would try to stop her. But she couldn’t stay here.

  Her entire body quivered with need as the pain in her head was completely overcome by the absolute, all-consumingdrive to search out the echo again. Even the flashing that came in bursts from the loft above was simple to ignore in the face of her crushing desire to locate whatever was buried in the snow.

  The fire was still burning, and Violet realized that someone, probably Mike or Jay, had added more wood to it during the night. Yet, despite the fire, Violet was freezing. And the idea of going out into the nearly arctic temperatures was unsettling, but not deterrent enough against the primitive craving that Violet could no longer deny.

  She dressed quickly, layering herself in her heavy winter clothes, before grabbing a flashlight and moving soundlessly across the floor with her boots in her hand. She didn’t breathe as she eased the back door open, careful to keep the latch from making a sound. She dropped her boots in the snow, and stepped into them as she closed the door softly behind her.

  The bitter night air cut through her lungs with her first breath. Shock rolled through her body in a vicious spasm, and the warmth that she’d hoped to carry with her, bundled within her thick down coat, was leached out in one harsh gasp.

  Even her bones felt icy and brittle.

  She tugged the edges of her hat down as far as she could and wrapped her scarf around her face, breathing into it to create a temperate pocket.

  She made her way toward the shed, not sure what she expected to find in there, but hoping there would be something, anything, to dig with that she could carry with her.

  The decaying shed was dark, and the ancient wood smelled musty even in the cold. Violet turned on her flashlight so she could see inside. Firewood was stacked all the way from the dirt floor to the ceiling against one entire wall. Against the others, there were old boxes, piled one on top of another, tools of various kinds, many of which she didn’t recognize: a snow shovel that she doubted would be useful, rusted cans of paint, an old broom, and a rickety wooden ladder. She’d wanted a real shovel, something with a pointed tip capable of penetrating the solid ground, but there was nothing like that.

  She did, however, spot something that might prove just as useful. An ax leaned against the pile of wood, with a blade that, sharp or not, would at least break through the compacted ice to reach the dirt below.

  Violet clutched the handle in her gloved hand before turning her flashlight out and leaving the shed behind her.

  Violet walked, her boots crunching in the icy snow, for as far as she could in the glow that radiated from the windows of the cabin. She didn’t want to turn on the flashlight until she had to. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, even though everyone inside was still asleep.

  But there was no moon to illuminate her way, and it was dark beneath thick cloud cover. And eventually, when she was too far from the house, she had to use it anyway.

  The beam cast a reflective gleam up from the ground like a fine, ethereal mist. At any other time Violet would have thought that it was wondrous and beautiful. Now, however, she was too caught up in her purpose to appreciate the wintry spectacle.

  The ax grew heavy in her hand, and she hefted it up, leaning it against her shoulder to ease the burden of its weight.

  There was only a moment of relief for Violet, after she was released from the pain of the imprint in the cabin she left behind—the one Mike’s dad carried. She knew it was only temporary though, that it would reclaim her as she moved closer to the cover of trees, where the body lay hidden. Yet she was powerless to stop herself from moving toward it.

  She didn’t need to see her trail through the snow to find her way, the echo found her again easily, seeking her out. Calling to her.

  Magical, Violet thought, the desires of the dead. And even as the pain reclaimed her, she was acutely aware that the nature of her ability was nothing less than miraculous.

  In this moment, it was a thing of beauty.

  Just like before, the pain peaked, and the narcotic sensations bled into her system, releasing imaginary toxins that made her light-headed with relief.

  She had reached the hidden body.

  She thought of the little cat in the box and wondered, for the first time, what was down below her, buried within the frozen ground she stood upon.

  Mike had said that his father was a hunter, and Violet assumed that meant large game—elk or deer, rather than quail or rabbits.

  Or small, harmless cats, Violet thought bitterly.

  She let the haze reclaim her as she dropped to her knees.

  Pride

  Megan listened in the dark as doors opened and then closed again. She had grown accustomed to being a sentinel of the night. Long-bred habits were hard to break.

  She’d heard her father come in, and she knew from the sound of his unsteady movements around the cabin that he’d been drinking.

  She stayed awake long after he’d gone to bed and his nighttime sounds had ceased.

  And then there was something else. Another sound.

  At first, Megan thought it was nothing. One of her brother’s friends getting up to use the bathroom.

  But it wasn’t.

  She listened. Hard.

  It was barely noticeable, and if she hadn’t gone to her window, she might have missed it altogether. Someone had left the cabin.

  No, not someone. Violet.

  It was strange seeing Violet walking away, dressed for the weather and disappearing into the uninviting night. Just days ago, Megan might have fe
lt differently about what she was witnessing, about seeing someone who she’d despised fading into the freezing shadows.

  But now . . . now she felt something she hadn’t expected to feel. Curiosity.

  And concern.

  Violet had been kind to her when she’d deserved nothing but condemnation, even if Violet was unsure of the offenses that Megan had committed against her. Still, Violet had welcomed Megan into their group, forgiving whatever she had once suspected and trying to start anew.

  Megan felt guilty for everything she’d done to Violet.

  It was an odd mixture of emotions. Unfamiliar sensations crept over her in unwelcome waves.

  Megan reached beneath her pillow and pulled out the tiny pink collar she’d hidden there. She fingered it—lovingly—stroking it slowly between her thumb and forefinger as she closed her eyes.

  She missed her little cat, the stray she’d been secretly feeding, secretly loving. She missed the way it waited for her, counted on her, loved her in return.

  It was the first time Megan had been needed. Really needed.

  But her father had taken that from her too.

  He wouldn’t allow her to be loved.

  He was too selfish to allow her anything good, so he’d taken care of the problem, not by arguing and demanding that she chase the cat away, but by simply leaving it in the trash for her to find.

  Now all she had left was the collar she’d bought for her cat and a bitterness that refused to leave her alone.

  Her father had never admitted to what he’d done, and Megan had never confronted him. But she’d known it was him.

  She had been sickened when she’d discovered her little cat there, filled with rage. But her next step had been misdirected, she realized now. Misguided. It wasn’t Violet’s fault that Megan’s life wasn’t what she wanted it to be. It wasn’t Violet she should loathe.

  It was him. It was her father she hated.

  Megan recognized the sound of his footsteps making their way back down the creaking staircase from the loft.

  Her stomach clenched tightly as she launched herself beneath her covers, expertly feigning sleep as she had so many nights before.