Her eyes narrowed as the smile fell from her face. “I’ve almost lost four patients in five weeks who came from here, and before that—well, I didn’t get the full story right away, but some of them didn’t make it. The ones before that, and before I came to work here have died from exsanguination—they bled to death.”
Mercy’s pale face lost what color it had left in it, and two little red circles appeared on her cheeks. “That’s awful. This place seems so peaceful.”
“It does—at least at first. It’s warm and inviting—a little rural paradise. After a while, though, the people become caricatures of themselves. The citizens put on little shows for the visitors here—pretending they’re normal, but they’re hiding some kind of secret,” Kathryn said. “At first, I thought it was so creepy here because of the quiet nights, but it’s not that. Not at all.” She shrugged and laughed again. “I sound superstitious, don’t I?”
“A little,” Mercy said. “But you’ve been alone a while. It’s instinctual to become hyper-vigilant, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so.” Kit closed her eyes and sighed.
“Yet if we look at the evidence with an objective eye, the injuries, disappearances, and deaths surrounding Dubbs House are an unusual number, considering the small population of the town. Plus—well—” she shook her head and shifted in her seat.
“Well, what?” Kit’s eyebrows raised as she stared at her friend.
Mercy pursed her lips. “The whole town has a history of violence and ugliness. The settlers didn’t chase out the indigenous people from this place like in other areas. They moved away of their own free will, but won’t say why. I contacted a woman on their council, and she told me that the land wouldn’t grow anything, and that was it. That was all I could get from her, and I didn’t press her to tell me more. I left it alone and told her she could always contact me if she had anything to share. Sad to tell you she hasn’t contacted me since.”
“Dead lands,” Kit said, leaning back on the couch again. “It seems practical enough.” She paused and drank more of her tea. “So—what else did you find when you were digging?”
Mercy set her empty plate aside and finished her cup. “The church-slash-town hall at the end of the circle, in the 1860s, had a preacher who passed through on some mission. Except he didn’t worship the same way the townsfolk did. He set up shop here for a while—staying for a year. Once a year had passed, he sacrificed seven women and committed suicide, leaving their bodies on the altar, in a heptagram, with his body in the center. Dumfries was his name—he cut the women open, removed their uteruses and burned them, and then killed himself by attempting to cut out his heart.”
Kit’s mouth dropped open, but she recovered. “Where did you find that out?”
“I found it in the Union Historical Documents Database,” Mercy said. “It was an article in the Nashton Lake newspaper. There weren’t many in-depth details, other than what I told you, and the town records offer little insight because the fire damaged many of them. This town has a long history of tragedy, but the citizens don’t have the hardihood to contemplate it.”
Kit’s upper lipped curled. “No. They’re a brusque lot—all of them—not just Callfield. The deputy might be loquacious enough to try to impress me, but he’s kept on a tight leash.”
The two fell silent and Kit rose to open another window as the house was getting oppressive again. She sat back on the couch. At least the sounds of songbirds kept it from becoming unbearable.
“Have you been to Dubbs House?” Mercy asked.
“Only when I first arrived and the overblown head of SHHS took me on a tour of the town as a ragtag welcoming committee of one. I’m positive the society was trying to solicit donations,” Kit said with a huff in her voice. “The house is a shambles. The town hall and old firehouse are well-kept, but the house needs renovation.”
She shrugged. “I thought little of it and gave them a few thousand to silence them. Greedy guts haven’t pestered me since.”
Mercy chuckled. “Well, why don’t we go see it?”
Kit shook her head and laughed. “After everything we’ve heard, read, and seen, you want to go exploring like teens in a horror film?”
“Why not?” Mercy asked. “If we see the place in person, it might help us gain insight. It’s not like there’s anything paranormal about it. Besides, we might find something scientific and logical behind the attacks and disappearances.”
“It’s trespassing,” Kit said, punctuating her pause by setting down the cup and saucer. “What if a—a—I don’t know—a woodsy family of cannibal killers with a pack of hybrid wolves hang around the back garden and wait for idiots like us to come along and snoop?”
Mercy laughed. “Are you listening to yourself?”
Kit opened her mouth to retort, but laughed instead. “Right. Ridiculous, I know,” she waved her hand as if she were shooing a fly away. “Fine, but I don’t want to get caught trespassing. We’ll go after Callfield makes his last rounds for the evening—around nine. The deputy is supposed to tour around after that, but I think he spends most of his time at his desk, wanking it or reading primers.” Kit shrugged. “Quiet town. Well, it pretends to be.”
***
After rest and a late dinner which Mercy cooked, the ladies got dressed for what looked more like a hike in the woods than an outing to a historic site. The pair prepared for any eventuality.
Kit packed up her doctor’s bag, and Mercy brought pepper spray and a .38 Special. Kit frowned upon seeing the weapons.
“I hope I don’t have to wind up treating you for a bullet wound or a chemical burn,” she said.
“Oh hush. You shoot for sport.” Mercy brushed a lock of hair from her forehead.
“Clay pigeons,” Kit said with a smirk. “Suppose I should bring my shotgun?”
“Why not?”
“Yes, why not? I’ll endeavor not to blow your head off.” Kit said. She giggled.
“I should hope not,” Mercy said. Though her tone was serious, she smiled.
“We’ll need torches—erm—flashlights, in your parlance,” Kit said, heading for the kitchen. “I’ve got a few—power gets knocked out for days during storms here.”
Mercy followed her. “Are you planning on coming back here next year?”
“I’d have to leave this place alive, first,” she said, opening a drawer and pulling out one large flashlight, and another, smaller one. “Here, take the larger one. If I’m carrying the shotgun, I’ll need the smaller because I can clip it to my bag.”
Mercy agreed and took the heavy torch from her friend. “How far is it from here?” she asked.
“Only a mile. We can walk. If anyone gets nosy, we can tell them we’re going on a night hike—the weapon’s for protection. No one will think much about that, I don’t think. But I don’t believe it’ll be a problem. People around here retire at sundown.” Kit pulled her bag over her shoulder. She strapped the flashlight to the bag and the shotgun to herself. They left the kitchen through the back door.
“The best way to get there will be through the back woods—keep us away from the main road,” Kit pointed to the forest behind the house.
The moon lit up the trail for them better than their flashlights could have, and they crunched their way through the forest. Crickets and frogs trumpeting their songs kept them company in the fresh summer air. Even with the thick leaves from the nearby trees, the trail was lit enough to see where they were going.
Kathryn slowed as they got closer to Dubbs House, and shivered, a pit settling in her stomach that something wasn’t right. She stopped in her tracks and felt Mercy bump into her back.
“What’s wrong, Kit?” Mercy’s voice was not quite a whisper.
“I don’t know—it’s—too quiet, don’t you think?” She looked around as though she might see what was causing the lack of ruckus.
Mercy nodded.
Aside from the gentle breeze rustling t
he leaves in the tall trees surrounding them, there was no other noise. The frogs ceased making their deep, rumbling croaks—no crickets calling for mates—as though someone flipped a switch to cut off a soundtrack.
Kit stopped moving, but the noise didn’t resume. In the distance, there was a growl, then nothing again. She pointed to a bend of the trail, stifling a shiver. “Here’s an exit that leads to Dubbs House. Ready?”
“Wait a moment,” Mercy said, checking the safety on her revolver. Kit checked a sigh.
Once satisfied, her friend nodded. “Okay, let’s go.”
Each step closer to the house put five pound weights on Kit’s ankles. The air around the place grew heavier. Kit turned on her torch as the moon disappeared behind a cloud, the beam swallowed by the darkness. She carried on in spite of it.
“Battery must be dying. Brilliant,” Kit muttered.
A warm blanket of darkness enveloped them and Mercy turned on her small flashlight. The house lit up in a yellow glow reminiscent of stomach bile.
“That’s almost better,” Mercy said.
“Your sarcasm betrays your nerves,” Kathryn gave her a sidelong glance.
“Your projection betrays yours.”
“Touché.”
The women walked up to the back deck that led to the wraparound porch. “Be careful,” Kit said. “The wood is still rotted through in spots.” She stepped on a loose board, expecting a creak. Nothing. Kit scowled at it as if she could will it to behave, then shook her head.
Mercy stepped on tiptoe and pressed her face to a back window. “The layout is similar to your place,” she said.
“It is. The original owners built it after Dubbs House, modeled the place after it. It has fewer secret passages though—well, that I’ve discovered.” Kit hopped over a hole in the porch and landed on a solid board, standing next to her friend. “Come on, you darling old bluestocking, let’s go through the kitchen.”
“Won’t it be locked?” Mercy asked, grabbing Kit’s arm.
“Ha, no. No one locks doors or windows around here—you’d think they would have by now, but they’re stubborn—or stupid.” She turned the doorknob.
The door opened without a sound which gave Kathryn a start. She glanced at the hinges as if they’d betrayed her.
“Is anyone here?” She cringed as soon as she said it. Letting people know they were there wasn’t a good idea.
There was no response. Mercy stepped in front of her with the better lighting.
“You can see where they’ve finished some of the restoration,” the historian said, aiming the beam towards the far wall. “It’s an excellent recreation of the original home.”
Kit took a look around. The full moon had returned, full beam streaming into the parlor, a half-finished room with coverings still on the furniture. The center of the room had a bare spot, where the floor sagged. “I can almost see all the bodies that’ve piled up here.”
Mercy made a noise of assent. “It started out as a private home after the war, became a makeshift TB and influenza ward, then a private boarding house. After that, they abandoned the place, and after that, it took the overflow from the local hospital.” Mercy looked up at her. “There was a mix of patients here. TB and mental illnesses. Loads of bodies, to be sure.”
Kit frowned. “That’s not a proper mix—you can’t endanger patients on either side that way.”
“True, but remember, this place was backward. Still is.” Mercy stepped closer to the dip in the floor and shivered. “This indentation looks like a person. It reminds me of Vitruvian Man,” she said.
Kit examined it with a clinical eye. “Except no room for the head. It’s a heptagram,” she took a step forward.
The floor groaned, and she stepped away as if it had caught fire.
Another groan. It wasn’t the floorboard.
“Where did that come from?” Mercy asked, voice hushed.
Kit shook her head. “I think it came from downstairs. The basement.” She took a deep breath. “Hello? Is someone here?”
The two women looked at each other. There was no response.
“You want to go see if everything’s okay? It could be a squatter,” Mercy said.
Kit shrugged. “I wouldn’t be much of a doctor if I left someone groaning in pain, would I?”
“I suppose not. A sound like that isn’t made by a healthy person.”
“True,” Kit said. “Let’s go, but keep your gun ready, in case it’s a squatter who isn’t injured.”
Dust from opening the basement door wafted to Kit’s nose, and she held back a sneeze, putting the crook of her elbow to her face. Each step they took on the steep stairs shook and rattled despite the light weight upon them. Both of the tall women had to duck their heads when they got to the last step.
The pain in Kit’s chest was growing with her descent. She took a deep breath, hoping it would ease up, and regretted holding in that sneeze.
“Hello?” The rush of air might help ease her discomfort. If I can yell, I can breathe.
“I hope whoever it is will be all right,” Mercy said. “I don’t like that there’s no response.”
“No, nor do I,” Kit said. The pain in her chest had subsided, but the pit in her stomach was heavier than ever. The gnawing feeling in her stomach gave rise to goosebumps on her arms—a sense of someone being around the corner waiting for them was strong. This was the way she felt when walking through a bad part of the city when she was young and stupid. The threat of a squatter jumping out at them and attacking was far more real to her than any supernatural threat.
It could have been wild animals that got inside, Kit thought. “Let’s stick together. If we find nothing, we’ll head home and I’ll give Callfield a call.”
Mercy perked up. “Oh, I have my mobile with me, we could call him now.”
Kit shook her head. “You can try, darling, but Silver Hollow’s a dead zone, remember?”
“Right.” Mercy blushed as she spoke. Even in the dimness of the flashlights, Kitas could see it.
They tread into the basement, an acrid smell lingering with must and earth. A thin stream of full moonlight streamed into the basement through a slit of a window.
Kit saw a shadow move.
“Mercy, over there!” She moved her beam toward the noise. “Did you see that?”
“No,” Mercy said. “What was it?”
“Thought I saw something move.” Kit grabbed Mercy’s arm, and they made their way over.
“Nothing,” Mercy said. “Damn.”
“This basement is enormous. We should sweep through as fast as we can and get out of here.”
She turned away from her friend to look where she’d seen the shadow move, cursing herself for doing something this stupid, face twisted with irritation. They should have waited till morning and got permission instead of running in as if they were two teenage girls in a horror film.
The room became dimmer while she was searching. Kit turned back around.
“Did your torch go, darling?” She asked.
Mercy disappeared.
“Mercy?” Kit’s brows knit. “Where’d you go?”
No response. No noise to show she’d left. The basement was large, but Kit hadn’t wandered far—not enough to lose an entire person.
With a sigh, she grabbed her shotgun and secured her torch to her rucksack. Careful to keep her finger outside the trigger guard (she didn’t want to shoot her best friend), she looked around for the woman. Mercy wasn’t the type to play practical jokes—the woman didn’t have even a sliver of a mean streak.
A scream came from upstairs. It was far away, but sounded like Mercy.
Kit headed up the stairs, smacking her forehead on the crossbeam. She swore and rubbed her head, the skin prickled and grew warm underneath. She pulled her hand away and looked at it. No blood. She breathed a sigh of relief. Since she had no double-vision, and the smack felt superficial, she kept going.
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Once in the house, she tried to orient herself and listen for movement—to locate the source of the scream. She didn’t have to linger—another scream came from upstairs, and this time, Kit could pinpoint it.
Up the flight of polished stairs, she made her way to the attic.
“Mercy? Are you up here?” It didn’t matter to her if other people knew where she was at this point—she’d made plenty of noise already.
The rickety stairs that led to the ceiling opening were locked in place. Someone had to have been up there.
Realizing she shouldn’t run up there as if she was head of a cavalcade, Kit got quiet, waited, and listened.
The sick pit in her stomach threatened revolt as she noticed the house was silent. No settling, creaking, or any of the sounds Kit had grown so accustomed to living in an older house. Silence and darkness spread like cancer over the room. Her own heart pounded in her ears, and took a slow, deep breath to quiet it.
Kit crept up the stairs, peeking into the attic, expecting to see Mercy and trouble.
There was nothing there.
Her beam of light spread as she turned a full 360 degrees. “Goddamn it.”
A little girl giggled. She turned again. No one was there. The attic was filled with boxes, more dust, old toys, and knickknacks. When she turned back, the corpse swinging in front of her made her yelp and she bumped into it. CLANG. Her flashlight hit the ground and she stooped to pick it up, heart pounding in her ears. If it was a body, she had to investigate. She stood back up and pointed the beam at the corpse.
There was nothing there.
“What’s going on here?” Kit’s teeth clenched so tight she felt her eardrums pop. I’m spooked. That’s all. That’s all it is.
Mercy screamed for help. Still, the sound was faint, because now it was coming from the basement.
“Mercy, I’m on my way!” Kit ran down the stairs when something caught her ponytail, then let go. Kit fell the rest of the way, catching herself with the butt of her weapon a fraction of a second too late. She gasped for air as the floor connected with her stomach.
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