Burden Falls

by Kat Ellis

  “I would have dealt with it.” He cuts me a look so sharp, I actually stop breathing for a second.

  “So, did this boy have something to do with Freya’s murder?” I hate the eager note in my voice, but this is the first time anyone’s mentioned an actual suspect to me. I hadn’t quite realized how much I needed to hear that there was someone very much alive behind the murder.

  “The cops looked into it. I have to assume they didn’t find a reason to arrest him, seeing as he’s right over there.”

  I follow his gaze to where Liam is still restocking shelves.

  “It was Liam?”

  Dominic doesn’t answer, but his gaze remains fixed on the other guy, and this is definitely a glower.

  “I had no idea . . .” But my voice trails off as I’m about to say I had no idea they knew each other, because that’s exactly what Liam said on the news: He used to play lacrosse with Freya’s brother. Of course, he failed to mention that he’d acted like a creep with her.

  Although . . . what if it wasn’t as one-sided as Dominic and his parents assumed? He said his mom and dad found the messages, not that Freya told them about it. Liam must be a couple years older than us, so that might’ve been a big deal to the Millers—enough reason for Freya to keep it secret? As in making secret phone calls from outside the manor . . . ?

  “She was fourteen,” Dominic says.

  I blink at him. “Who was?”

  “Freya. When Liam was bothering her back at St. David’s.”

  “Oh. So it was, like, years ago?”

  Dominic frowns. “More like eighteen months. You know Freya just turned sixteen, right? Her birthday was New Year’s Eve.”

  Well . . . shit. I did not know that. But then I remember the New Year’s party she livestreamed; that must’ve been her sweet sixteen. Most of the seniors at Burden Falls High are already eighteen, or about to be. Damn, how did I not realize she was that much younger than us? I mean, I knew she’d been moved up a grade, but not two. And maybe the whole “Miller twins” thing got stuck in my head because I always thought of Freya as being the same age as me.

  She was so young. And now she’s dead.

  I breathe carefully, trying not to vomit over my sketches.

  Suspects. Focus on suspects.

  At sixteen—or fifteen, if it started before New Year’s—it’d be fucked up for pretty much any guy to be swapping nudes with her.

  Like Liam.

  Or Ford?

  I shove that thought right out of my head. I’m pissed at him, but he wouldn’t swap nudes with an underage girl. And he definitely wouldn’t murder one. I’m sure about that.

  Right?

  TWENTY-FOUR

  My Thursday night shift at the Pump’N’Go is as thrilling as a flat tire, so maybe that’s why my mind goes into overdrive.

  The more I think about it, the more convinced I am there must be some way I can figure out who killed Freya. After all, I overheard her sex convo; I know the manor like the back of my hand; I found her body . . .

  And all these things must be pretty damning in the eyes of the cops. How hard are they looking at me right now? I mean, if they don’t find the real killer, am I the next best thing? I picture myself being dragged from the gas station in handcuffs.

  Focus.

  Was there something important I missed in that phone conversation? Did she say a name, and I just dismissed it at the time? I try to remember, but nothing miraculously springs to mind. What about when I found her body, then?

  I’ve spent the last days trying my hardest not to think about the murder scene, but I force myself to go over it again now. I close my eyes, picture myself walking through the orchard. Stumbling at the doorway, then looking up and seeing her there. Her eyes—of course, her eyes were the first thing I saw. Or didn’t see. How she sat slumped against the pavilion wall. How her hands lay in her lap. How her blood was on her face, her neck . . .

  I summon that same smell—sour apples and something metallic . . . Blood, I realize. That metallic smell was her blood.

  My phone rings beneath the counter, scaring the crap out of me. The lone customer glances over at my yelp, and I smile apologetically as I silence the ringer.

  It’s Ford. Of course it is.

  I reject the call and put my phone on silent. But a message comes through before I’ve even set it down.

  Ford: Don’t hang up. Please, I need to talk to you about something.

  For God’s sake. Ford and I haven’t spoken since he was such a massive asshole in his room. I’ve calmed down a micro-bit since then, but I still have nothing to say to the guy. He hasn’t seemed too keen to talk to me, either, until now. Every time I’ve seen him, he’s looked drawn and pale. I guess Freya’s death freaked him out even more than I realized.

  I think that’s what makes me pick up my phone again. Checking the customer isn’t looking, I fire off a quick reply.

  Ava: Talk about what?

  As soon as I hit send, he’s calling again. I put him through to voicemail, then type another message.

  Ava: I’m at work! What do you want?

  This was a bad idea. But the three dots tell me he’s already writing a reply.

  Ford: I saw something in Freya’s video. It might be important. Need to show it to you in person, don’t want anyone else to see.

  Damn him. It’s like he knows exactly how to lure me in. Which, of course he does. He’s been worming his way on and off my shitlist for years.

  Ava: Working at the Pump’N’Go until 12.

  Ford: I’ll be there in 20.

  Ava: No, I’ll call you when I’m done here.

  But he doesn’t answer, and the dots don’t reappear. I jab the screen to write another message, but accidentally click onto my thread with Dominic. There isn’t much to it, just arranging to meet and work on the comic, mostly.

  I never did finish going through those images he sent me. And Dominic and I never talked about what he found out about Sadie to use on Haunted Heartland—after that day, it seemed like a moot point to me, and Dominic only mentioned it that one time.

  I open the thread now, picking up where I left off.

  Witchcraft Murder Trial Concludes

  The article he’s photographed is from a newspaper dated 1866, called the Evansville Beacon. I didn’t even know there were printed newspapers back then, but I’m not exactly a history nerd. (Carla definitely would’ve known.) I’m even more surprised to see a headline about witchcraft—I thought that shit ended with Salem.

  The trial of noted apple farmer Mister Ephraim Thorn Senior ended today upon news of the defendant’s death in custody, the cause of which is believed to be natural. Charges pending against his widow, Susannah, will no longer be pursued.

  Upon hearing the news, a mighty uproar erupted outside the courtroom, where a number of women, formerly under the Thorns’ employ, were heard by this reporter to call for “Justice for our Sadie!”

  Sadie Burnett, the young woman Mister and Mrs. Thorn stood accused of murdering and conspiring to murder, respectively, was last seen by other members of the Thorn household on the night of June 18th, and heard later that same night, when she reportedly cried out for help. This reporter spoke with one of the women outside the courtroom, a Miss Rebecca Oakley, who claims she heard Miss Burnett exclaiming, “Please, not my eyes!”—the same followed by a terrible scream.

  Throughout the trial thus far, Mister Thorn Senior proclaimed his innocence and that of his wife on account of Miss Burnett being well-known as a practitioner of witchcraft, and insisted that they did not end Miss Burnett’s life, nor “commit violence upon her beyond that which God would condone.” In her testimony, Mrs. Thorn—a pious woman, by all accounts—stated that she “put out the eyes that so bewitched [her] husband, thereby severing the Devil’s hold on h
im.” The pair claim to have then locked Miss Burnett in a disused part of the cellar, that her screams should not disturb the rest of the household. When a servant went down to release her come morning, Miss Burnett had by all appearance vanished without trace. Mrs. Thorn claimed this as evidence of the Devil’s sorcery at work.

  The lady was released into the care of her son, Mister Ephraim Thorn Junior.

  Wary of similar instances arising due to fearmongering amongst the local townspeople, the judge proposed a by-law attaching a fine of one year’s salary to any person found to be practicing or making public references to witchcraft. The proposal was agreed and instated as a town by-law by officials of Burden Falls.

  I swipe to the next page, hoping to find more of this bizarre news article, but there’s nothing—it jumps ahead to a report of a storm causing a fire that burned down part of the manor in 1902.

  But the trial article . . . Sadie Burnett . . . she has to be Dead-Eyed Sadie, right? She was a real person, not just some made-up phantom from a ghost story. And it seems like two of my ancestors killed her. It’s right here, in black and white.

  Did my great-great-whatever-grandparents actually murder a girl because they thought she was a witch?

  I flip back to reread the article and realize I missed an image in between. This one is an article dated two years after the Sadie trial, and at first I think it’s another unrelated event: some laborer being prosecuted for vandalizing private property. But I only have to read a couple of lines before I find the name Thorn. Ours was the vandalized property—specifically a barn that was being used to process apples. The laborer, a John B. Miller—no, the last name is not lost on me—was fired from his job at Thorn’s orchard after getting his hand mangled in an apple press, and was caught a few days later:

  carving what in low parlance is often referred to as the evil eye onto the wood siding of the aforementioned barn.

  The man did not appear in the least contrite, in fact going on to say that: “The Thorns deserved all they got, and a lot more besides. They may think we forgot what they did, that they can keep doing wrong by others without fear of consequence, but the townsfolk of Burden Falls remember. We see. All the Thorns’ wrongdoings will come back around, mark my words.”

  John Burnett Miller was sentenced to thirty days in the county jail. Mister Ephraim Thorn Junior appeared in court as a witness for the prosecution, but, when approached after the verdict was read, declined to offer comment.

  I can’t quite catch my breath by the time I finish the article. Did Dominic read this before he sent it to me? Was this John Burnett Miller actually his ancestor, and somehow related to Sadie Burnett? Was this where the bad blood between our families really started, with murder and revenge?

  If it’s true—and I have no reason to think it isn’t—I really do come from a long line of bastards. And the Millers have far more claim on Sadie than I’ve ever had.

  So why was Freya the one to die like that? Why wasn’t it me?

  And was the incident in this news story where all the evil eyes came from—where it all started? Were they some underground signal among people who hated my family? A reminder of what we’d done to Sadie Burnett—what we were capable of? Or are they all curses aimed at Thorn Manor?

  “Hey.”

  I jump like I’ve been Tasered. Ford stands on the opposite side of the counter, snow dusting his hair and shoulders. His eyes look bloodshot, like he’s been awake for days.

  “What are you doing here?” My voice is tight and a little shrill. “I said I’d call you.”

  “I need to show you something,” he says, looking back over his shoulder as though expecting someone else to stride in through the door. “Can you take a break?”

  “I have a customer,” I hiss. The customer, who’s taking so long, I feel fairly certain she’s working up the courage to shoplift something, cuts a quick glance our way. Obviously listening. “Hang on,” I sigh. “I’ll see if Mia can cover the counter.”

  Mia’s fine with it, and waves me off.

  I catch Ford’s sleeve and tug him outside and beyond the gas pumps to the bench that serves as a bus stop at the side of the road. The bench is covered in ice-crusted snow, so it’s useless to sit on. We kind of hover next to it—me just waiting, Ford pacing, his breath fogging the air around his head. At least it’s stopped snowing for now.

  “Ford, I don’t have long . . .”

  He comes to a sudden stop. “You’re still pissed at me, aren’t you?”

  I let my glare answer for me.

  “Come on, Ava. I hate it when we fight.”

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t act like such a jerk all the time. Look, just say whatever you came to say, okay?”

  I’m not sure he’s listening, because he starts pacing again. Then stops just as abruptly. “I’ve been going over everything in my head, trying to figure out what the hell happened and who the killer could be, and I spotted something important in Freya’s video . . .”

  Now that he’s facing me, I catch a whiff of something smoky on his breath. “Ford, are you high right now?”

  “No!” He throws his hands up, but that only wafts it my way again. “Fine, I had a smoke, but I’ve had this weird feeling all week like someone’s watching me, and I needed to calm down.”

  “Seems like it worked real well,” I say drily.

  I fold my arms, majorly unimpressed. I mean, I’m not the fun police, but I did not sign up for this. It’s also damn cold standing out here.

  “You don’t understand—I just keep looking out my window and thinking about it, what it must’ve felt like, how scared she must’ve been . . .”

  A bus rolls along the road toward us, slowing as though to stop, but I wave it on.

  “You dragged me out of work because you’re high and paranoid and think you’ve had some huge stoner epiphany that I need to hear right now? Go home, Ford. You’re pissing me off.”

  “Jesus, will you just listen—”

  There’s a rumble in the road behind me. Ford’s face is lit up starkly in the headlights for a second, harsh and irritated. Then his eyes go wide. For one crystalline moment, I can just tell something awful is about to happen. It’s like I’m back in my parents’ car, watching Dad’s mouth open and close in his reflection in the window.

  Ford launches himself away from the road, knocking me off-balance, and I stumble backward, toward the lights.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  My scream hangs in my throat, ready to be punched out of me on impact. I fall and land hard on my knees. My hands burn as they scrape against the sidewalk.

  Tires screech at my back as the car skids on the ice. I wait for the crushing pain.

  And wait.

  It never comes.

  When I look up, the car is idling at an angle in the road. Its front fender stands inches away from where I’m crouched. Chest heaving, too stunned to move, that aborted scream comes out as a whimper.

  “Shit, Ava, I didn’t mean to do that. I just . . .” Ford trails off—maybe because it’s hard to come up with an excuse for not even bothering to warn me that a car was about to plow right into me. No, Ford just shoved me aside like always.

  The window rolls down next to me, and Mr. Hamish’s head appears. He looks almost as shook up as me.

  “Ava Thorn? Is that you? Are you all right?”

  I can’t answer. My mind is numb, caught on the fact that I almost just died, thanks to my best friend.

  No. Ford’s not my best friend. He’s not any kind of friend.

  I get up, brushing away the snow that’s fast turning to wet patches on my knees. My hands shake, and my mouth’s too dry to get a word out.

  “Ava?” Mr. Hamish calls uncertainly.

  “Yes, I . . .” I turn around to reassure him that I’m not hurt—not physically—then stop. “Freya?”

&nb
sp; I gasp when I see the girl sitting in the seat next to the guidance counselor. Even in the dim interior, I see the blood-red color of her hair.

  “What did she just call me?” she asks Mr. Hamish, and then I know I’m mistaken. Whoever she is, her voice is too high and girlish to be Freya.

  And of course it isn’t her. I saw her dead body just a few days ago. I’ve seen it a hundred times since then, in the dark.

  Ford’s staring at me, one hand clapped over his mouth. I’m not sure if it’s because he made the same mistake I did, or if he can’t believe what just happened.

  “My break’s over,” I say tersely.

  “Ava, wait . . .” Ford follows me as I stride toward the Pump’N’Go. But I don’t slow down.

  “Fuck off, Ford. We’re done,” I say, and I keep walking.

  * * *

  * * *

  Ford hangs around outside until Mia spots him on the security monitor in her office and tells him to go home. I watch him walk away from the gas station, but then my phone starts to ping, of course. His messages veer from telling me I was overreacting to baiting me.

  Ford: I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to push you, I was just trying to get out of the way of the car and I judged it wrong. Fucked it up, like always. You know I’d never hurt you on purpose.

  Thoughtless ass!

  Maybe Ford didn’t shove me on purpose, but he also didn’t give a shit whether I got out of the way in time. Just looking out for himself, as usual.

  When he doesn’t get a response, his texts get weirder.

  Ford: Don’t ignore me, Ava.

  Ford: I never showed you what I saw in the video Freya took in my room. It might help figure out who killed her.

  He knows exactly how to get me to engage, but I refuse this time. Still, I watch the video back under the gas-station counter, just in case. But I can’t see any big clue.