by S. E. Green
I look at our surroundings, at the garage in the left corner, at the garden spreading across our side yard, at the woods to the right. I’m leading her into the woods. I don’t remember this. When did this happen? I look to the bottom corner where a yellow date stamp sits, indicating this happened the night she was murdered.
I led Michelle into the woods on the night she was killed.
SOMEONE STICKS THEIR head in the room and calls Crandall out, and for some very long minutes I do nothing but sit and stare at the picture. Her yellow nightgown. My brain flashes back to the bag I pulled from our pond and yes, her clothes were yellow.
Dad touches my shoulder, and I jerk away. This can’t be happening.
The door opens back up and a uniformed officer steps in. “You may go,” she tells us, but I don’t move.
I need to know what’s going on. Crandall needs to finish. I need to know about this picture.
Dad grabs my arm and none-so-gently tugs me to my feet, out the door, down the hall, and straight from the police station. He opens the passenger side of his work truck, tucks me inside, and snaps my seatbelt. Then he’s behind the wheel, hurriedly backing up, and his tires squeal as he quickly exits the lot.
Neither one of us says a word as he drives me home. I try to latch onto a thought or a word, but my brain is divided right now, breaking apart, coming back together, spinning.
I don’t remember that picture at all. I don’t remember holding her tiny hand and walking her into the woods. Uncle Jerry had her in the garage apartment sleeping on the couch. Bee-Bee said she came and got her. So how did Michelle come to be with me that night? I don’t understand.
“You know you used to sleep walk when you were a little girl,” Dad quietly says.
My head jerks up. “You think that’s what I was doing?”
“I don’t know, but I do know we would find you everywhere: sleeping in the fort, out on the front porch, one time PaPaw found you curled up in his goat barn, which means you went all the way through the woods, all sleep walking. You really scared us a time or two. But when PaPaw started working with you, you got a lot better.”
“When was the last time?”
Dad shakes his head. “I would say at least seven years.”
“But you’re not for sure.”
Dad shakes his head. “No, I’m not.”
Tears rush to my eyes. “Dad,” my voice cracks, “did I do this? Am I responsible? Did I ki—” I can’t even finish that sentence. The picture of Michelle naked and stuffed inside of that goat slams into me, and I toss myself half out of the open window and throw up.
Dad immediately stops the truck and pulls over to the side of the road. I throw up again, gagging, crying, that image of Michelle strobing through my brain.
Dad’s hand touches my back and softly, he rubs it. “You didn’t do this, baby. You didn’t. You couldn’t have. They are going to find the person responsible, and you will see, you are not in any way at fault.”
Wiping my mouth with my trembling hand, I fall back into the truck, and Dad pulls me into his arms. I bury my face into his chest, and I sob.
Michelle. Please, God. Please don’t let me be responsible for this. Please.
SIDE-BY-SIDE, dad and I solemnly climb from his work truck, and we make our way across the yard and up the front porch. Mom’s SUV is back, so I know we’ll find out about that mark on Kevin in just a few minutes.
Before Dad opens the front door, I grab his arm to stop him. “Dad, please don’t tell Kevin and Travis about that picture. Please. I don’t want my brothers to know I might have—” My throat swells, and tears fill my eyes again.
“I won’t,” Dad quietly assures me. “Don’t you worry about that.” He wipes a tear trailing down my cheek and gives me a warm, loving smile, and I automatically bury my face in his chest again. I don’t want to go in. I don’t think I can face anybody else right now.
The door opens, and Travis grins at us. “I don’t know why she’s crying, but get in here now. You are not going to believe this.”
Me and Dad exchange a perplexed look, and we walk in too see both Mom and Kevin standing in front of our flat screen T.V. It’s filming live from the trailer park where Mark Doughtery lives. In the background the residents are standing by watching. There’s a police barricade around Mark’s trailer with investigators moving in and out and around it. Down in the left corner is a smaller screen showing Mark moments ago being handcuffed and led away.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Mom turns toward us with this sort of stupefied, excited face. “They found the murder weapon buried under his trailer with his fingerprints and traces of Michelle’s blood.”
I gasp.
“I didn’t do this!” he yells into the camera.
They flash the knife onto the screen, and it’s this bizarre looking dagger with a jagged edge and an ornamental handle.
Next they show a leather bound journal with a pentagram embossed on the cover, and a reporter speaks, “Sources say that this journal contains detailed sketches and plans dating back to before Michelle Doughtery was born, indicating this man has been plotting this for years.”
I suck in another breath, and my brain whirls. Mark Doughtery. He murdered his own daughter. He planted that evidence in our pond to make us look guilty. He orchestrated the other ritualistic events. He outright lied to me, and I fell for it. I played right into his manipulative games.
“Mark Doughtery was ruled out early on because of his alibi,” the reporter goes on. “But a recent break in the case has proven that alibi false.”
His alibi. That was Edwin. So Edwin lied to cover for Mark. I want to bring that up, but my thoughts are interrupted as the reporter continues, “The detective was overheard saying the case went in many directions, but the dagger was the ‘smoking gun’ they were waiting for in order to make an arrest.”
Another screen pops up down in the right corner. It’s a shot of two weeks ago when Mark’s trailer was searched on the same day our home was. “Mr. Doughtery’s home was searched soon after his daughter was murdered, but nothing conclusive was found. An anonymous tip is what led the police to search under his trailer where the evidence was found buried.”
An anonymous tip. Probably from someone in his trailer park that saw him digging in the dirt.
“Sources also say there is evidence that Mark Doughtery and Daniel James, a known Satanist, have stayed in close contact over the years and in fact plotted this together.”
Daniel James. The bald guy from the woods.
The reporter presses his finger to his ear and listens for a second. “I’ve just received word that the lead detective on the case will be making a statement within the hour.”
My eyes go back down to the bottom left corner where there’s an image of Mark being stuffed into the back of a cop car. “I’m being framed!” he yells.
This is all so unbelievable. Him and Daniel James have stayed in contact all this time. They’ve been planning this for years. “But what about the phone they found in Edwin’s pack?” I ask. “What about Edwin being the alibi?”
Travis turns to me. “Before you and Dad came in, they were saying Mark planted evidence in several locations to throw the cops off his trail.” Though my brother doesn’t say it, I know he’s talking about the bag in our pond, too. “They also said Mark drugged Edwin when they were out night fishing. When Edwin woke up, Mark was passed out, too, and he just thought they’d had one too many beers.”
Well, that makes sense. “But why would Mark bury the murder weapon under his trailer?” I ask.
Dad shrugs. “Who knows what’s going through Mark’s head.”
Yet none of this explains the picture of me leading Michelle into the woods. Who took that picture, and what exactly was I doing? I glance out the living room window and across our property to the house that sits high up on the nearby hill. The Todwell’s live there. They’re an elderly couple, and I rarely see them, but, like Wade’s ho
me, they may have a security system that could’ve taken that picture. Which still leaves me with why I was leading her into the woods and what happened when I got there.
“Mom,” I say, not caring if my brothers hear now. “Crandall showed me a photo of that night. I was walking Michelle into the woods.”
Both of my brothers turn at the same time Uncle Jerry strolls through our screen door. “Yeah,” he says. “I woke up and saw her gone off my couch. Came outside and the two of you were walking in circles, singing.”
“Singing?” I ask.
Uncle Jerry shrugs. “I don’t know, some nursery rhyme. Anyway, you handed her to me and walked back inside the house. I honestly didn’t think anything about it. Nothing seemed strange. You’re always up at the weirdest hours anyway. I figured you had insomnia. I figured Michelle woke up and wandered outside. Seriously, nothing seemed off. So I put her back to sleep on my couch, and then Bee-Bee came to get her. Why?” He looks from me to Mom to Dad, clearly at a loss. “What’s wrong?”
Relief suddenly slams into me and buckles me forward to brace my hands on my knees. I didn’t have anything to do with this. Mark, he’s to blame for it all.
Dad rubs a soothing hand down my back. “Nothing,” he answers Uncle Jerry. “Nothing is wrong. Everything is exactly right.”
While I breathe through my relief, my mom relays everything to Uncle Jerry that just broke on the news, and I tune her out as the sounds of the people gathered along our road filter in through our windows. I wonder if they know yet that Mark has been arrested.
Dad grabs the remote and mutes the TV. “Let’s get out of here.” He nods out the window. “Because if I have to listen to that one more second I think I might explode.”
“That’s a fabulous idea,” Mom agrees.
Dad looks at Uncle Jerry. “How about you and Pops join us up at the fishing camp?”
Mom jokingly groans. The fishing camp isn’t exactly her favorite spot.
Uncle Jerry smiles, and I’m so happy to see him and Dad talking again. “Sure, we’ll meet you up there.”
He heads out, and Dad claps his hands. “Everyone pack a bag. We’re leaving in an hour.”
Everyone trickles off then in different directions, and I snag Kevin. “So what’d the doc say?”
“Just a strand of ring worm.” He shrugs. “No big deal.”
The Devil’s mark. I can’t believe I thought that.
And the Ultimate Sacrifice. What would’ve happened if Mark hadn’t been caught? The final kill was supposed to be someone related to Michelle. I wonder which one of us he intended on slaughtering.
Sickness shudders through me at the thought of any of my family being butchered in some satanic ritual, and I shove the images from my mind.
It’s over, I tell myself. It’s over.
IT’S JUST LIKE it used to be when we would go for weekend drives—me and my brothers in the back of the SUV, Dad behind the wheel, and Mom riding passenger. As is typical of my family, we have the windows down as the SUV switches back and forth on the curvy Tennessee roads, and our bodies gently sway with the movement.
To the left of me sits Travis, his gaze bumping over the thick trees zooming by, lost in his own thoughts. To the right is Kevin, his eyes closed, a gentle curve to his lips, letting the sunshine warm his face. In front of him is Mom with a magazine spread across her lap, slowly flipping the pages. I never understood how she could do that on these roads.
I glance into the rearview mirror and as if drawn by my gaze, my dad’s eyes flip from the road to the reflection, and he gives me a gentle smile that I return.
Eventually we stop along the river, and Mom grabs the cooler of food she packed from our kitchen. We find a picnic table and she goes about laying out the chips and bread and sandwich fixings. In the late afternoon summer sun, we eat and we talk about the stuff we always used to talk about: school, friends, sports, Dad’s job, Mom’s . . . It’s like nothing has happened. Everything is just so normal.
Afterwards my brothers and I venture onto the rocks sticking out from the bubbling and rolling river. We hop from one to the other, smiling, laughing.
“This is the best day we’ve had in a very long time,” Kevin says.
“Yes,” I agree.
Travis looks up and down the river, around at the trees, and up the embankment to where the road and our SUV sits. “I’m so glad to be gone.”
I nod. “Me, too.”
Mom calls us, and we race up the embankment and climb in the backseat. We drive for another hour or so way, way, way up into the mountains, and as the sun is setting we pull into the fishing camp.
I’ve only been here a couple of times. Mom was right with her joking—this is more where my brothers come with Dad and PaPaw. It’s their guy thing they do. Their male bonding time or whatever you want to call it. I’ve never minded because it always gave me and Mom time to do our thing—a mani-pedi or some shopping.
Dad pulls into the fishing camp and we wait while he runs into the tiny office to check us in. It’s rustic here with bare bones wooden cabins, outhouses, plenty of places to gut and scale fish, and open fire pits for cooking.
There’s nothing luxurious about it. No electricity, no cell service, no indoor plumbing. It’s a good thing we’re only staying for the night. I don’t think Mom could take much more than that. Yes, it’s rustic, but the times I’ve been here, I’ve enjoyed it. It’s like stepping back in time.
Dad’s back and driving us along the dirt road, past a few cabins, and further into the woods. As is typical, there are people standing around, dressed in camouflage, and hanging out, but not as many people as I expected. The few times I’ve been here, it was definitely packed.
We come to a stop at a cabin way in the back, and though I can’t see it through the thick trees, I hear the river bubbling and rolling behind us. The scent of several wood fires fills the air—just like it smelled the other few times I’ve come.
“When’s PaPaw and Uncle Jerry going to be here?” Kevin asks as he opens his door and jumps out.
“Any minute,” Dad answers, and we all go about getting our stuff and heading inside.
All the cabins around here look the same. There’s one open room with bunk beds, rocking chairs, a fire place, and a scaled down kitchen complete with an old fashioned water pump, an ice box, and a wood stove.
We only unpack a little before we head out into the camp to socialize, and soon PaPaw and Uncle Jerry arrive. Everyone seems to know each other as they shake hands and hug and laugh and visit. I can’t help but smile as I look around at it all. Mom even looks relaxed. Maybe we can stay longer than just the night.
The sun completely sets and everyone begins lighting lanterns that hang from the trees. It’s communal and the small amount of people here share food and drink. A few of the older men bring out fiddles and a banjo, and as the hours tick by they play and sing.
Eventually it grows late, and we head to our cabins for the night, and as I lay on the top bunk, I stare at the dark wood beams of the ceiling, my thoughts lazy and content, and gradually my eyes drift closed on my last thought, this is always how it should be.
LEANING OVER, I gently shake Michelle awake and she opens her blue eyes. Without a word I take her hand and lead her from Uncle Jerry’s apartment, down the outside steps, and across our yard into the woods.
Without the cloud coverage it’s darker out than usual, but I don’t need to see. I know these woods. I grew up in these woods.
I’m not sure where I’m going, but I know I’m supposed to look for a yellow light. And there, up ahead, I see it. A soft glow.
My fingers tighten around Michelle’s smaller ones, and neither of us say a word as we get closer, closer, closer to the flickering.
Together we step into a small clearing, and all around us stand people, or more like figures. I count seven in all. But I can’t see who they are. Each of their shapes are blurry and black.
A goat neighs, and my eyes turn down to w
here it lays on the ground. That’s Mo, I notice, the one with the Mohawk. I watch him kick his fore and hind legs, fighting against the twine winding his hooves together.
“What’s going on?” Michelle asks, and I don’t answer. For some reason I can’t speak.
The figures start chanting something low and quiet and guttural. One of them moves forward, an object held in his hand. I study the object for a second, and I recognize it. It’s an odd looking dagger with a curvy blade and ornamental handle. Where have I seen that before?
Still mumbling the chant, the figure kneels down, and in a slow methodical movement, inserts the dagger into Mo’s lower abdomen and slides it straight up until it won’t go anymore.
Mo screams. Blood pours. Guts uncurl.
Michelle screams, too, and I immediately clamp my hand over her mouth.
One of the figures moves toward me, and Michelle willingly goes into the person’s arms. She’s crying now, trembling, and I watch as the person slowly begins to strip Michelle naked.
I feel like I need to move, I need to speak, but I can’t seem to do anything except stand here and watch in this hazy trance.
There’s some mumbling, and I realize whoever is undressing Michelle is trying to calm her.
The chanting from the others continues, and Michelle is led onto a drop cloth where her hair is combed and braided and her fingernails are quickly clipped. She’s scared, she’s shaking, and pee trails down the inside of her legs.
My heart lurches and then thump-thump-thumps. I want to go to Michelle, but still my feet stay routed. She falls onto the drop cloth, crying harder, and tries to burrow into it to hide. One of the other figures moves forward and carefully winds her tiny wrists and ankles with some twine.
She is picked up and moved off the drop cloth and over toward Mo that I just now realize has been completely gutted and hollowed out while I was watching Michelle.
In my peripheral vision I see one of the figures collecting her hair and nails from the cloth. I see the cloth being folded with her clothes inside. I see it all being put into a giant zip lock bag where a book already lays. For the first time I notice hands. Everyone is wearing surgical gloves, including me.
