by Mia Zabrisky
Babbling like an insane person.
Then it faded away.
He waited. He listened.
Nothing. Not for the longest time. It was maddening. He was fed up.
The house was dark. He switched on the hallway light and made his way toward the second story, drifting past an ecology of shadows. Cassie was still sleeping a lot during the day, still healing. He didn’t want to wake her up but he needed the human contact, and not just any contact—hers. She had closed the door again. She was so incredibly afraid of everything since her experience at Hope Hollow that she kept the doors and windows shut. Now he placed his hand on the antique glass knob, and the door opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges. The lights were off. The curtains were drawn. He could barely make out the peaks and valleys of this nocturnal landscape.
Something was wrong with the play of shadows.
“Cassie? You okay?”
She was sitting up in the dark. Rubbing her face. Rubbing her shoulder.
Crying. She was crying.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” He threw the switch.
“Benjamin?” She looked up with an awful urgency.
He went over to her. In the soft pink light, he could tell she was trapped inside a remorseless hole of sorrow. Her pajamas had ice cream cones all over them—reflecting Cassie’s ironic sense of humor, but her sorrow gave them a pathetic resonance. As soon as he sat down beside her, she thrashed around, pushing him away and making soft, blunt motions with her hands. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t touch me!”
“Okay,” he said, terrified for her. “I’m sorry. I’m here. It’s okay.”
At the sound of his voice, she stopped thrashing around. She wiped the tears off her cheeks. There was an antique chest at the foot of the bed where they’d once made uncomfortable love. There were two lamps, perfect for reading, and an easy chair by the window that beckoned you to sit and relax. Benjamin’s books were stacked in precarious piles against the walls, waiting to be shelved. She reached for him in a helpless way and let him hold her. He did his best to reassure her by pushing past his own inner turmoil.
“Benjamin?” She twisted her fingers like the roots of a tree into his scalp and gave him a steely, unrelenting look. “Whatever happens… say you’ll understand. All right?”
His heart began to pound irregularly.
There was a pearly translucence to her skin. He touched her lovely swan-like neck and stroked the silky loops of her hair, then bent to kiss her sugary lips.
She pushed him away and made him stop. She held his eye. “I love you.”
He was too stunned to respond.
“Do you understand?”
He nodded dumbly. He didn’t believe her. He could only hope it was true.
“I love you, Benjamin. You’re such a good person.” She was crying. Her mouth was wet and open, and her face was flushed and hot. He brushed aside some of her hair, dumbstruck with love.
“Benjamin, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I love you, too.”
“No. You don’t understand. I have to go home. I’m sorry.” She was sobbing. Home, she signed. “I have to go home.”
Dignity, Vermont
48 hours later, the moon was out. It was past midnight. A cool breeze had blown in from the southwest, promising more snow. Colton pitched his shovel into the ground, leaning hard on the shovelhead and digging out more dirt. He balanced the steel blade on the cold ground, placed his foot on the shovelhead and had to stomp a few times to break the surface, since the turf in this part of the yard was obstinate.
Live by ‘em, die by ‘em.
He threw his back into it, working with conviction. Each time the shovel struck a rock, he had to stoop down, pick it up and toss it aside. There was a growing pile of rocks to his right. The soil here was poor for farming.
Unaware of any utility right-of-ways on his property, Colton thrust the blade with confidence into the earth again. Once the turf gave way, he attacked the stubborn roots, chopping through tubers and rotating the shovel until his arms grew tired. He extracted plug after plug of crumbling soil, dumping it off to one side. He used an old tire iron to pry some of the bigger rocks out, since even the best of shovels couldn’t get all the rocks out. He was digging a pretty big hole, and it would take some time. As his dad used to say, “Death’s gonna get us. Every damn one of us.”
Not me, Colton thought. He brought death—he would never succumb to death. That’s what he told himself anyway.
After about an hour, sweaty from exertion, he dropped the shovel and breathed for a minute. Then he walked a few yards toward the old pig trough, where he’d left the body, and picked her up by the legs and dragged her back to the hole. He paused to look at the moon. Ever since they’d landed up there, he wasn’t as mystified as he’d been as a kid. Swiss cheese, his father used to say. The moon is made of Swiss cheese. When in reality, it was dry as dust and a dull gray nothing. Now he exerted himself and pushed the body into the hole, but she landed crookedly with her arms and legs splayed, so he had to go down there and fix her, which made him mad. He needed a shower. He was hot and sweaty, despite the chill in the air.
He climbed back out of the hole and fetched the trash bag with all her stuff in it and threw that on top of her. Then he knelt down and started pushing big piles of dirt over the side of the hole, clawing with his hands. Big scallops of dirt landed with a plunking sound on the body below. He tossed in the rocks, too, and they made even louder sounds in the moonlight. It was a lot of work. It was exhausting. Why was everything such a hassle? At long last, he stood up and shoveled the rest of dirt back into the hole. Then he patted and tamped it down with his boots. He clapped his hands. Done. Now he had bills to pay. Fucking cable rip-off and electric company.
Blackwood, New York
Downtown Blackwood hadn’t changed much. You could still buy chewing tobacco and a plumber’s wrench at Abe’s Hardware. You could still order a classic martini at the Rumba Room on Main. Oh sure. Many of the local mom-and-pops had gone out of business, and the upscale boutique had a “50% OFF” sign in the window, and the Paradise Café was now called the Lucky Duck Café, but the people hadn’t changed. The town’s hopes and dreams hadn’t changed. Benjamin took the highway exit east.
He drove for hours, listening to the voice getting louder and louder inside his head. Cassie was gone. She had left him this morning. She couldn’t be persuaded to stay. It felt good to be driving. He was trying to outrun his sorrow. He drove eastward, ever eastward, over hills and forging deeper into the woods. He was following the voice. The wind blew the smell of pinesap into the cab of his truck. The road telescoped ahead of him, and tree branches swayed, shaking off curtains of snow. Whenever he took a wrong turn, the voice grew fainter. Whenever he headed in the right direction, the voice grew louder. He used this as his barometer.
He was feeling a little teary now. He missed Cassie. He didn’t know what he’d do without her. She had changed his life. She had made him want to settle down. Maybe it was silly—thinking you were in love with a woman you’d just met? But Benjamin knew that he would always love her. No matter what.
Crazy, he knew.
But true. As true as his heart could fathom.
He drove for hours, heading into Vermont, until he could feel Bella’s presence very close and pulled over to the side of the road. It was late afternoon. He sensed this was the place. An old farmhouse surrounded by woods, and a well-maintained barbed wire fence that delineated the property, with “No Trespassing” signs posted every dozen yards or so.
He breathed steadily through his nose. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his face, and he wiped it away with his thumb.
Benjamin could smell spruce and cedar as he trudged through the woods. The voice had stopped as soon as he’d stepped out of his truck, and that concerned him. It had been building and building, and now it was gone. Bella was in great pain. She needed him. And yet there was nothing but silence now.
The fence was a good one, the barbed wires strung tightly together. He walked along the perimeter for while, until he found a place where the fence sagged beneath the weight of a fallen tree. He climbed over the tree to the other side and followed an old trail laced with snow. The coyote tracks were a few days old. He crossed a partially frozen streambed, stepping on gray round rocks worn smooth by millennia of rushing water and slippery with ice, and made it to the other side without falling in.
A network of untamed paths trended downhill, past old-growth trees and boulders and drop-offs. Benjamin hiked down the treacherous slope through the thinning woods. He knew where he was going, although he didn’t really know where he was. Hard to explain. He let his feet take him. At last, he found the farm through the thinning trees.
He parted the maple branches, loose snow drifting to the ground, and shuffled through knee-deep drifts as he crossed the field, a blanket of white. He stepped over a crumbling stonewall that marked an obsolete boundary and caught his breath. The world was as silent as prehistoric rock. He wanted to reassure her that help was near.
“Hello? Bella?” he signed. “Are you there?”
Nothing.
He became concerned. Maybe he’d arrived too late? That had happened a few times before. He shook off the dread and horror of that thought, and forged his way across the snowy pasture toward the farmstead.
The dairy farm consisted of a large red barn and a dozen ramshackle outbuildings. The farm was isolated, with nothing but woods and pastures for miles around.
Benjamin swung the gate open, forcing it into a snowdrift, and strode along the frozen dirt road toward the farmstead. A rusty Chevy pickup truck was parked in the driveway. The dilapidated two-story farmhouse was washed in sunlight.
He felt a chill as he looked at the old sheep’s pen with its broken split-rail fence. The place seemed deserted. He waited with a mounting tension and expected to hear from Bella any second now. Nothing. It upset him that she might be dead.
He felt a shadow drifting over him and looked up at the sky. He shielded his eyes with his hand and saw a large bird, a hawk or a raven, perhaps even an eagle, soaring higher and higher on air currents until it finally disappeared behind some clouds. He lowered his gaze and noticed the footprints in the snow, leading from the house to the barn. The barn doors were open, and he headed off in that direction. He crossed the courtyard, where a rusting tractor and fertilizer spreader were parked. There was an abandoned blue trailer used for delivering silage, and a dung bund full of manure. The cement wall surrounding the dung bund prevented the filthy water from seeping into a nearby stream, and the barnyard smelled of ancient animal urine and silage.
Benjamin paused and searched for the voice in his head. Gone. She was gone.
Was he too late? He didn’t want that to happen again.
The barn doors were battered and scratched. He cautiously ventured inside the dilapidated structure. The air smelled thickly of pickled grass. The floor was divided in half by a feed passage lined with 30 empty stanchions. On either side were the manure gutters, and perpendicular to those were the mangers where the cows used to feed. Only there were no cows. Not anymore. The metal stalls had gone to rust. The milking machines stood abandoned.
Benjamin brushed the cobwebs out of his face. Straight up was a 40-foot ceiling with enormous crossbeams. Tacked to one of the walls was a faded vintage illustration of a cow divided into parts: short loin, sirloin, rump, flank, brisket. The warped floor creaked and bounced under his slightest step. The tension was palpable.
He stood very still in the center of the barn and turned 360-degrees, checking every corner, every angle. It was dark in here, with dusty sunbeams leaking through cracks in the ceiling and probing the murky depths of the barn.
Benjamin couldn’t keep his teeth from chattering. He had to admit he was scared. He picked up a pitchfork to use as a weapon and moved slowly past the stanchions toward a heap of dusty boards and wormy planks. He looked directly up into a gaping hole in the hayloft. He could smell fermented grains and matted hay. He tried to prepare himself psychologically.
“Bella? Are you in here?”
Nothing but silence inside his head.
He followed his instincts through the shadows, past ancient rusty equipment and fermenting bales of hay. He turned the corner and discovered the body. He stood frozen to the spot. There was so much blood.
A gray-haired, middle-aged man lay spread-eagled on the floor, a long blade-like shard of glass sticking out of his chest. His lips were blue, and his blood-filled eyes were open. You could see his receding gums and his long yellow teeth. He wore tracksuit bottoms and an orange sweatshirt, but his feet were shoeless and sockless. His toes were chalk-white. Knotted around his ankles was a length of old rope about 35-40 feet long. The other end of the rope was secured to the harvester.
Benjamin took out his phone and dialed 911—there was a special line for the deaf where you could leave emergency text-messages. He went outside and waited for the police to arrive.
Dense woods surrounded the fields, and the sunlight played over the snow. He couldn’t get the image out of his head. The dead man had a jutting chin. Even in death, there was a disturbing insolence about him.
Mercy Falls, Pennsylvania
Cassie shivered—more out of fear than anything else—and took the jagged mountainside up a narrow, untamed path. The clouds were low in the sky. The steep trail cut clumsily into the rock, and her legs burned on the rugged ascent. She could feel the icy spray from the cascading water on her face. Three and a half weeks ago? Could that be right? Oh God, she would never get over him.
At 100 feet, she crossed a sturdy footbridge that spanned a dangerous gap in the rocks and overlooked a spectacular view. Crystal water tumbled down a series of jagged natural steps, hitting boulders and ledges in splats and splutters, creating musical noise. She remembered Ryan’s touch, his kiss, his voice. She missed him with a hurtful ache.
Halfway up the mountainside, the path grew rough and rocky. She continued hiking in thoughtful silence, stepping carefully over gnarled roots that wriggled across the snowy paths. Near the top, she took a detour up some wooden steps toward another scenic overlook, where there was a sheer drop of 150 feet beyond the rickety guardrail. A frothy torrent of water plunged down the rock wall, creating a lacy cascade. She stood on the precipice, holding onto the wooden rail and looking down at the churning rock pool below. This was the place. The exact spot. She would never forget it.
“Hello,” someone said behind her.
Cassie spun around. Coming down the trail was an older gentleman with deep-set eyes, a beautifully sculpted face and thick silver hair.
“Careful,” he said. “That guardrail’s a little rickety.”
Cassie gasped, “Ryan?”
He frowned at her uncertainly. He took the last few steps down the trail and stood panting beside her. He clutched the rail with his leather-gloved hands. He was elegant-looking in his camel’s hair coat. He was in his seventies, but still a handsome man. She tried to wrap her mind around it. How could it be? He was old. He was alive. He wasn’t immortal. Olive and Isabelle must’ve reversed the wish and allowed him to live a normal life. “I’m sorry,” he said, breathing hard. “But do we know each other? Were you a student of mine? It’s been years…”
She couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice. “You don’t remember me?”
He studied her face and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I retired from teaching years ago. My memory isn’t what it used to be.” He smiled. “What was your name again?”
“Cassie.”
His eyes sparkled. “Ah. Cassandra. She had the gift of prophecy, only nobody would believe her. That was her curse. She foretold the fall of Troy. And to think I don’t remember you. How could I have forgotten such a delightful young Cassandra?”
She stood in stunned silence. On the brink of tears.
“Did you major in Classics, or was Greek Myt
hology an elective? Which one of my classes did you take?”
She wanted to keep him there. She lightly touched his arm. “We met a long time ago,” she said, “while doing our laundry.”
“Laundry?” He smiled, his eyes crinkling. “Seriously?”
“Down in the basement of your apartment building, there was a laundry room.”
“Sorry. Not ringing any bells.”
She grasped his arm. “I learned a lot from you, Ryan. So much.”
“I’m glad.” He gently pried her fingers off his arm and looked at her with kindly concern. “I’m a little confused. Were you one of my students, Cassie?”
“You honestly don’t remember?”
He was growing embarrassed. He shook his head. “Afraid not.”
“We came here once. To these falls. A long time ago. We stood in this very spot.”
“Ah.” He gave her a pained smile. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else. I never came to the falls with anyone but Beatrice.”
She felt her heart break. “Beatrice?”
“My wife. The light of my life. She passed away last year.” He looked across the gorge to the other side, where tree branches feathered toward a darkening sky. “This was one of our favorite spots.” He glanced compassionately at her. “Are you all right? I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.”
She shook her head and smiled. Tears sprang to her eyes. She stood inhaling the cold air. It was an overcast weekday in December. There were no other hikers on the trail with them, and she’d seen very few cars in the parking lot. She turned to him and said, “You were the love of my life.” He gave her a sobering look, but before he could stop her, she ducked under the guardrail and jumped off the edge of the precipice, dirt and gravel tumbling under her feet as the ground gave way.
Somewhere on the Border of Vermont and New York
