by Amy Lukavics
Zeke is in the distance, riding on horseback, about halfway between the cabin and the trees. He is alone. There are big covered buckets resting on each side of the saddle, presumably to collect water in. Emily watches him grow closer from the shade of her sunbonnet with an unsure expression. Pa doesn’t look too thrilled at the sight of the boy, but Ma and the children wave and call out hello.
“Hello, neighbors!” Zeke calls as he approaches, and the children continue to wave wildly from where they stand on the fence. “You’ve certainly cleaned up that yard, haven’t you?”
“Look inside when you go to get your water,” Pa says from where he whittles a design into the leg of a chair. “You won’t recognize it, guaranteed.”
“Let’s hope not,” Zeke says jokingly.
Emily shifts her weight uncomfortably beside me while she looks over at Zeke. He rides into the front clearing, dismounts his horse and tips his hat to Emily. She smiles, but not as brightly as she did the other times he was here. Warm satisfaction washes over my heart. Too bad, Zeke. I fight the urge to ask him about the knock on the window the other night.
“How are things, Emily Verner?” Zeke asks, low enough for Ma and Pa not to hear.
“Very well, thank you,” she replies quaintly. “And how is the doctor?”
“The same,” Zeke says, then looks over his shoulder to the forest line. Why does he always look like he’s anticipating something? “He’s in Elmwood, at the moment—”
“Were you here the other night?” I ask, cutting him off and ignoring my better judgment. Zeke and Emily look at me in surprise. “On the prairie, I mean. Did you knock on our window and then run away?”
Zeke’s eyebrows furrow at my accusation. “It wasn’t me,” he says after an uncomfortable pause. He removes the buckets from the sides of the saddle quickly, purposefully avoiding my gaze, then starts walking back toward the well pump. “I haven’t been here since I came with my father.”
He doesn’t ask more about the incident, doesn’t wonder aloud who would knock on our window at night and then run away, and doesn’t even attempt to woo Emily with some other flirtatious line or gesture, which only makes me feel quite certain that he is the one who did it.
It had to have been him, I knew I didn’t imagine it, I didn’t, and it most certainly wasn’t the baby with the animal eyes.
“Why do you still think he did that?” Emily asks after Zeke’s out of earshot, not angry, just genuinely curious. “I remember that night very well. I didn’t hear—”
“So, just because you didn’t hear anything, nothing happened?” I say, more shrilly than I intend. My sister frowns. “I know what I heard, Emily. Zeke and his father are the only ones who live around here for miles and miles.”
She looks aggravated now, but holds her tongue.
“What?” I challenge, trying to get her to stop being so God-cursedly perfect all the time. “You don’t want to disagree with me? Afraid that you’ll push me over the edge because my baby died?”
Emily’s mouth drops open, and I instantly regret that I said it.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and put my hand on hers. I only just got her back, I mustn’t ruin it now just because of Zeke. “I’m so sorry, sister. That wasn’t fair.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she replies, looking after Zeke as he passes by the front door without looking in. “But it’s all right. I understand. Amanda, are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
“I’m exhausted and sore. What more do you want me to say about it?”
“I’m...” Emily’s voice lowers even more. “I’m not talking about the baby.”
“Emily,” I say, and close my eyes in frustration. “I would tell you if I wasn’t.”
I lie because I only just got her back, and I refuse to risk distancing myself by reawakening the fear that clouded her eyes when I told her about the devil in the woods.
The children run to follow Zeke, asking questions about the forest and begging to know when he’ll come back for the scary stories he promised Emily last time he was here.
The scary stories, I’d almost forgotten. After Zeke disappears around the corner of the cabin, I look, finally, to the spot where I saw the haunt of the infant. The grasses bend back and forth at the mercy of the breezes, and my stomach turns at the knowledge of what is on the ground there, in it. I wonder what types of stories Zeke knows.
I wonder if any of them sound like mine.
“You really should come for those stories, you know,” I say once he’s back at his horse, trying my best to sound earnest. “I would love to hear some about the prairie.”
Emily sighs from beside me, then crosses her arms over her chest. She thinks that I’m fooling.
Zeke fumbles with the saddle straps that wrap around the closed water containers. He pauses before turning slowly to look at me. “How do you know that there are any?”
“Well, you know,” I say, and shrug. “I can only imagine how the isolation of this place could cause people to go mad.”
Zeke stares at me, his expression serious. “Where did you hear that?”
“She didn’t hear it anywhere,” Emily cuts in apologetically. She doesn’t believe that I actually want to hear any stories; judging by the angry nudge of her boot, she thinks that I’m teasing Zeke, maybe even trying to get him to admit to knocking on the window. “She’s especially tired today and wasn’t feeling well earlier—”
“I’m fine, sister,” I insist. “Really.” I look back to Zeke. “I just thought it’d be nice to get away and enjoy a story or two. I guess I could use the distraction.” It’s only a half lie.
Emily looks a bit more convinced. “Well, if you’re sure you really want to...”
I shrug. “It’s better than sitting on a fence with nothing to look at but our own shadows.”
Zeke and Emily laugh, and I know that I have won.
“Please, Zeke?” Charles says from where he stands, petting the horse’s nose. “I love spooky stories!”
“Yes, please!” adds Joanna. “We can even take the really scary ones.”
Zeke removes his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead, deliberating, then puts it back on. “We’ll do it tomorrow afternoon,” he says. “But only if Emily agrees to sit by me so I don’t get too scared.”
My sister blushes, of course. “Maybe I will,” Emily says. “And maybe I won’t. I guess we’ll have to see if you actually show up.”
This makes Zeke laugh. I hate the sound of it just as much as I do the redness in Emily’s cheeks. I swear, something good had better come of this. Something useful.
“That’s fair enough,” he says. “I should be going, now.”
“Why in the afternoon?” Joanna asks as he mounts his horse. “Aren’t you supposed to tell spooky stories at night, around a fire?”
Zeke’s smile flickers away for just a second. He has to know something. Why else would he avoid Jo’s question? I knew it. He waves to Pa and thanks him for the water. “See you tomorrow afternoon, everyone. So long, Emily Verner.”
“So long, Zeke.” Emily grins, and then he’s going. When she sees me eyeing her, the grin fades.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I take a deep breath to release the pressure in my chest.
“Oh, please,” she says. “Just because you’re hurting doesn’t mean I won’t call you out in a lie.”
“That’s fair enough,” I say, mocking Zeke in a flawless impression. “Fair enough, Emily Verner. Now, if you wouldn’t mind coming on over here to sit next to me, just so I can smell your heavenly hair...”
My sister erupts into laughter. “Oh, my Lord,” she manages in between breathes. “You are absolutely ridiculous.”
“You can’t be cross anymore,” I say with a smile. “I made you laugh.”
“Oh, wretched.�
�
Pa abandons his project for a moment to take a swig of whiskey from the flask on his belt. He watches Zeke get smaller into the distance. “Why didn’t he look inside the cabin?” he calls over to us. “He said he was going to, and then he never did. You would have thought he’d be interested in seeing it.”
“I’m sure he’ll look next time he comes,” Emily says. “He seemed to be in a bit of a hurry.”
“It’s so strange that they insist on using that pump.” Pa takes another sloppy gulp that leaves his beard sparkling with amber droplets of liquor. “I don’t think they need the water. They told me in Elmwood that those woods are veined with creeks.”
“It’s much cleaner than creek water.” Emily looks insulted on Zeke’s behalf. “They probably only use it for drinking and use the creek water for everything else.”
“Maybe,” Pa says. “Anyway, did I hear something about scary stories? You’d better go inside and ask your ma about it. You know how she feels about those sorts of things.” He secures the flask back onto his belt and returns to his work. “If you do end up going, take the snake catcher.”
The snake catcher is a contraption Pa rigged up that consists of a wire loop at the end of a walking stick. You pull the end of the wire to close the loop, trapping any snakes that might be trying to strike. So far, nobody has used it to catch a real snake.
“Ma just said that she doesn’t want the stories to be satanic,” I assure him. “And we will take the snake catcher.”
Pa goes back to work, and my sister and I hop down from the fence.
“I know what you did,” Emily says as we make our way to go talk to Ma inside the cabin. “And I have to say, thank you, sister. I know you don’t like Zeke, but you still put my feelings ahead of yours, and actively at that. You are truly the dearest friend I could ever hope for.”
Her words have the opposite effect on me than what I think she intended. Leave it to Emily to give me the benefit of the doubt in the times when I deserve it the least. I wonder for a moment what would have become of my sister if I had run away with Henry. Would she finally be able to see people for who they really are? Would it have benefited her to be here without me? The dreamy smile on her face suggests so, and it makes me feel like I deserve everything that’s been happening.
“You’re welcome,” I say, sealing my fate in Hell. “I love you, Emily.”
The place where we meet up with Zeke the following afternoon is halfway between the cabin and the forest. He is working to get a fire started in the rock-lined pit when we all arrive. Halved logs that are crumbling with dead bark are arranged in a widened triangle around the area.
I didn’t hear the infant crying last night, but I won’t allow myself to feed any hope that might suggest nothing is wrong here. The emptiness inside of me, both physically and not, is still new and strange enough that I can never feel truly certain about anything that is happening, or what came before this. What exactly do I hope to learn from whatever story Zeke is about to tell?
“I’ve always known this spot was here, but have never used it until now,” Zeke admits, his hands on his knees as he bends down to poke the fire and make sure it kindles. I sit on one of the logs, and the children scramble up on top of another. “I think it’s probably the old camping place of somebody who traveled through the prairie at one point. Either way, a little bird somewhere told me that you just cannot tell a scary story without the presence of a fire, so here we are.”
Joanna tugs on the tie of her sunbonnet and grins shyly. “I guess it’s a good thing we came in the daytime,” she says. “Ma said we wouldn’t have been allowed to come if it had been at night.”
“Your ma is a smart woman,” Zeke says. He sits down on the last log and smiles hopefully up at Emily. She looks back with an arched brow and a half grin before sitting beside me. I want to laugh, but I mustn’t anger Zeke. I need to hear what else has happened on this prairie. “There are lots of animals and other things that like to hunt at night.”
What other things? I want to ask, but I hold my tongue. Tell me what is happening to me.
“So today,” Zeke continues, “I thought I’d share a story with you that my grandfather used to tell me when I was younger, whenever I was acting especially rowdy or cross. He lived in the same cabin that we do now, you see. He lived near the prairie his entire life.”
Zeke tells us about Jasper Kensington, who was well-known and equally liked around Elmwood, a family man who made a living by hauling in wood from the forest near his cabin and carving it into beautiful pieces of furniture to be sold by one of the town vendors.
“That’s what our pa does!” Joanna gasps, and Zeke suppresses a smile. For a moment I become worried; I hope he isn’t making something up as he goes along, twisting important things around just so that the story is more personalized and likely to scare the children. I need him to tell the story like he heard it, I need to know if my mind is breaking. I saw it on his face yesterday when I mentioned the prairie. He has information that could help me.
“He came into town every other Friday,” Zeke begins, the heat from the fire smearing his features together. “And never missed a day in nearly fifteen years.”
Here we go.
“Until one especially cruel summer. The vendors expecting Mr. Kensington that day simply assumed he came down with something or needed to tend to a matter at home. Things happen out here on the prairie,” Zeke tells us, his voice ominous. “Things happen out here all the time.” The children’s eyes are aglow with anticipation.
I lean forward, praying that I’ll be able to somehow find help in Zeke’s words.
“So, while surprising, Jasper’s absence caused no serious alarm. Until four days later, that is, when he stumbled into the center of town without a horse, limping and sunburned and rambling bouts of complete and utter nonsense.
“He was smiling,” Zeke continues. “Smiling like a madman and laughing to the sky as if he’d drunk more than a few fingers of whiskey. He was covered from head to toe in blood, and he was carrying a scythe.”
“Oooh!” Joanna cries, delightfully repulsed.
“What’s a scythe?” asks Charles.
“They use it to harvest wheat,” Joanna spurts excitedly, hardly able to contain herself. “They are so scary, Charles, they look like giant claws! I saw one on the mountain once when Pa took me into—”
“Let Zeke go on,” I urge the children. “I want to know what happens next.”
Emily waits quietly from where she sits beside me. Zeke nods.
“‘I killed my girls!’ he cried gleefully to a group of children who were playing jacks by the well. ‘Their little skulls broke like hen’s eggs, why yes, they did, and spilled their contents generously! I tasted them!’”
“Ewwww,” Joanna and Charles cry out together, and hook their arms around each other.
“Well, isn’t that lovely,” Emily says, disgust evident in her expression.
“The children screamed and scattered,” Zeke continues, “catching the attention of townspeople and stable workers and vendors and my grandfather, who had been sitting outside while practicing his Biblical catechisms. The commotion caught the attention of Sheriff Stoekel real quick, a man who’d been quite fond of Kensington and spent many afternoons laughing over cards and cigars with him.
“The sheriff held his hand over the gun on his belt, but didn’t draw as he moved slowly to the cackling man covered in red.
“‘Now, what’s this about, Jasper?’ Mr. Stoekel yelled. ‘What’s all this about you killing your girls?’
“Kensington faced the sheriff in a jerky motion,” Zeke says. “But he just started laughing all the harder. ‘My sweet little girls,’ he managed to gasp. ‘And my good wife, too. The claws told me to break their little teeth out with rocks, to see their insides and paint the walls with them, and t
hey struggled, Sheriff, oh, how they struggled!’”
“Oh, my,” Joanna says softly. Charles bites his lip.
“That was when Stoekel drew his gun,” Zeke continues. “He said, ‘Drop the scythe, Jasper, and let us take you to a holding cell and get some water in you. What you’re saying is nonsense. You’re mad from dehydration.’
“The Kensington man fell to his knees, the laughter gone. Suddenly he seemed petrified. The scythe, slicked with crimson and sun-hardened chunks of yellow and white, fell from his hand and into the dirt. He started begging the sheriff for forgiveness. He was convinced that there were demons in the prairie, that he didn’t kill his family at all. But they were dead, all of them, just like Jasper said. The sheriff found the bodies inside the family’s cabin. It was a bloodbath.”
The children wait for him to continue, their arms still wound tightly around each other. Zeke sits up straight and sighs. The story is over.
“That,” Emily says, “was quite the spine-tingler.”
“It was gross.” Joanna crinkles her nose.
“But what happened to him?” I ask from the halved log, my hands clasped together in a frightened fist in my lap. “What happened to Jasper Kensington?”
Zeke looks into the fire, unblinking. “I’m not exactly sure. My grandfather, er—” his hand goes to rub his neck “—he never told the story past that point.”
“I bet he became a ghost!” Charles says. He wiggles his finger in Joanna’s ear, and she screeches. “I bet he wanders all around the prairie at night, dragging chains and saying ooooh! oooooh!”
Zeke chuckles. “Perhaps you are right. I could have sworn yesterday on my way home that I saw chain marks in the dirt.”
Charles’s face goes from entertained to terrified in a second.
“Joking, of course,” Zeke says. “You won’t find any ghosts on this prairie.”
I am not relieved, or satisfied, for what am I to gather from this—that I will continue to lose my mind and eventually kill my own family? The cries in the night have startled me so, as did the sight of the infant standing upright in the dark, but I haven’t been hurt by anything, nobody has. I haven’t wanted to hurt anyone.
