by Deb Donahue
The man and dog had apparently followed a narrow deer trail through the brush, but though Miranda checked carefully as she followed the trail herself, she could find no further evidence of their presence. The trail itself almost disappeared several times, and ended up at a ring of massive oak trees. Within their trunks, the ground lay mostly bare, the soil compacted by generations of fallen leaves. Only a few straggling weeds had managed to find enough sun to snake up through the dirt.
Miranda stood in the middle and looked up at the thick branches that formed a sort of roof over her head. A golden leaf with curled edges broke free of its stem and fluttered gracefully to join its mates on the ground.
She remembered this place now. The fairy circle. That’s what she’d called it. She could almost picture the red and white checked tablecloth she had spread out on the ground. Miniature tea cups and a pot had been carefully laid out. Crumbled leaves on small plates served as elf cookies. Her stuffed toys had joined her for the tea party: a one-eyed bear, a floppy dog, and a Raggedy Ann Doll. And the fairies. Miranda scrunched her forehead as the picture became clearer to her. The fairies had been angel figurines she had snuck out of the house in her backpack, knickknacks from her grandmother’s shelves in the kitchen.
Serenading them while they partied was a music box wound and opened in the center of their “table.” The song it played was the same one from her dreams the nights before. Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you.
Miranda sat down hard on a fallen log. It didn’t mean anything, didn’t make the dreams real. It simply meant that restoring the figurines to the kitchen had triggered her subconscious memory. Which had led to dreams that incorporated the music box. That was all.
Still, she jumped nervously when Rufus suddenly began snarling and whimpering. He faced the thick brush to the east of the fairy ring and moved a few steps toward the overgrowth as if he wanted to give chase. Hesitating, he ran back to her side, barking even more ferociously. Miranda drew her handgun and stood up.
“Who’s there?” she called. “Come out or I shoot.”
The bushes shook and she clicked the safety off, taking aim. Before she pulled the trigger, however, a quail soared upward in a flutter of wings. Rufus gave chase, his yapping high pitched and excited. Maintaining her ready stance, Miranda moved toward the bushes, not lowering the gun until she was close enough to peer into them. She saw no one, even when she pushed aside the branches to look deeper.
Something did catch her eye, however. Deep in the brush she could see lengths of pitted, worn boards slanted against the ground. Was it a pile of discarded lumber or an old door someone had tossed? The little bit she could see, however, seemed more like a structure of some sort.
Holstering her gun, she pushed aside the branches, glad she had worn her thick jean jacket, and made her way through the bushes. The brush had grown up around the base of a huge pine tree that looked even older than the ones that lined her driveway. Between the gnarled roots of the tree slanted a wooden door almost parallel to the ground. If it had been covered with leaves and debris, it would have been undetectable.
The groundcover, however, had recently been cleared away. The entrance resembled an old fashioned cellar door, except it led to straight into the ground.
Alarm buzzed through Miranda and she looked around, listening carefully. Leaves rustled overhead, disturbed by a warm breeze. A squirrel scolded her from a pine bough overhead and sparrows called to each other off in the distance. Nowhere was there sight or sound that indicated another human was nearby. But clearly someone had been here in the not too distant past. Sod and leaves that had been removed from the doors lay to either side of the entrance and scrapes on the wood itself had been left behind by whatever tool had been used to clear the area—a shovel probably. Someone had deliberately laid the entrance bare and there could only be one reason for that.
Holding her breath, Miranda reached for the rusted handle and gripped it with both hands. As she paused, a voice in her hand said “Don’t open it, don’t open it,” but her reflexes ignored it and tugged hard. The door rattled but remained firmly shut. Miranda tugged several times, but to no avail. There was no keyhole so either the door was latched from the inside or nailed shut.
Rufus was nosing around in the leaves around the tree. At first Miranda thought he had merely caught the scent of a mouse or mole, but then he pulled something out and began eating it.
“Stop,” she commanded. “Rufus, leave it!”
Reluctantly, the dog let go of the remainder of his catch. Instead of finding a mouse carcass, however, the scrap he’d found was actually part of a shriveled apple. Was this the explanation? Did the doors simply lead to an old root cellar? But then why had someone uncovered it recently? And why would a root cellar be located so far from the farm itself?
It was possible there had once been a house or cabin built somewhere nearby and this cellar had belonged to it. Many wooded areas in the county still showed remnants of old homesteads that had failed or cabins that had burned or been abandoned. A creek flowed nearby which would have made the location desirable due to the easy availability of water.
Miranda pushed her way back out of the covering brush and began to search the surrounding area. A house would have been within a few hundred feet of any root cellar. Though Miranda searched fairly thoroughly, she could find no foundation or leftover logs or planks that would suggest a structure had existed. The forest was old growth which made it unlikely there could have been a fire that completely destroyed the property, plus any fire that would raze a cabin so thoroughly would surely also have burned or damaged the root cellar doors.
Miranda stood at the edge of the creek bank and looked across to the other side. It was possible the water had followed a different path years ago when the root cellar was in regular use. That meant the house could be on the other side of the creek. Leaning forward to look down the steep bank below her, though, she had to admit that wasn’t likely. The flowing water at the bottom was now only a few feet wide and inches deep, but years of spring runoff had been intense enough to gouge out a crevice about eight feet high and fourteen feet across. This had been the stream’s location for generations.
Just as she thought that, the clump of grass beneath her feet began to crumble. Miranda tried to step back, waving her arms to keep her balance, but the clump dislodged the dirt around it and before she could escape she was being swept off her feet by a miniature avalanche. She slid down to the creek bed amid a rush of dirt and small stones, skinning her hands as she tried to grab at roots to slow her descent.
At the bottom, she sat dazed for a moment, shaking dirt from her hair and face. At the top, where she had come from, Rufus was yapping in alarm, looking down at her. Finally, he tumbled down the slide to join her, whining and licking her dirty face in concern.
She laughed despite her stinging palms and pushed him away “Stop it. Stop it, boy. I’m okay.” Standing up, she shook black dirt out from under her jacket and dusted off her jeans. She still trembled a bit from the experience, but her landing had been so soft that apart from a few scratches she was unharmed. She definitely needed a shower, however, and lost her adventuring mood.
Climbing back up the steep slope to return home was not going to work. The freshly disturbed earth was too soft and crumbly to hold her weight and would probably just bring more dirt raining down on her. Her best bet was to follow the creek upstream and look for another way out.
Now that Rufus could see his mistress was unharmed, he seemed to love walking along the creek bed. As Miranda headed back toward the farm, Rufus ran ahead digging at animal holes and sticking his nose down them to get a better scent, scaring up a flurry of minnows by taking a few laps of creek water. When his explorations spooked a ground squirrel, he chased after it, disappearing around the bend ahead and yapping playfully.
Before Miranda rounded the curve, however, his barks had turned to howling and strange, eerie yelps. Heart racing, Miranda drew her
gun and rounded the corner carefully. A few feet away, Rufus was desperately trying to salvage something buried in the side of the creek bank. An avalanche had happened here a long time ago, unearthing a huge tree which had fallen across the banks, its roots still embedded deep into the soil on the opposite side, forming a cave-like hollow. Twisted vines and boulders had captured refuse as it washed downstream and made the entrance of the hollow look like Nature’s junk yard.
Rufus had penetrated the cavern deeply enough that only his tail was visible by the time Miranda reached him. He was growling now, deep and ferocious, in a way that made Miranda grip her gun tighter. Was there someone hiding in there?
The dog refused to obey her commands to quit and come to her. Either he couldn’t hear her through all the noise he was making or was so focused on his prey he didn’t care. Now that she was closer, it seemed unlikely anyone could be hiding in the crevice. The interior was a network of gnarled roots and refuse that had been trapped during the creek’s high-rise state. Miranda stepped closer and reached in for the dog’s collar to pull him out.
As her fingers grasped the leather around his neck, she caught a glimpse of what he was worrying: something wrapped in green cloth. As she pulled Rufus back, she heard the fabric tearing. Gripped in his teeth, the square of green ripped away to reveal bones beneath it. Ribs scoured of all flesh through exposure and erosion. Topping the skeleton, a skull with open eye sockets stared out at her.
Chapter 11
Miranda screamed and pulled back, looking wildly around her. Sounds seemed intensified, movements seen from the corner of her eye looked like human predators. She swiveled from side to side, gun gripped tight. Squirrels suddenly chattered an alarm on the far bank and a flurry of leaves caught her eye.
She fired blindly, emptying her gun into the rim of the bank without aiming directly at anything. Bullets sent up dirt clods and a bevy of sparrows took to flight. Then she glimpsed red fur disappearing in the distance and she realized her “predator” had actually been of the animal variety: a fox setting the squirrels off as he stalked them looking for some supper.
That fact did not ease Miranda’s tension. She tried to quiet her ragged breathing as she listened and looked around carefully. Even after she convinced herself she was alone, her heart raced. Had she really seen human remains tangled in the roots? It had to be her imagination. Some dead animal, a cow perhaps, had washed downstream with the spring rains and been caught in the hollow.
But what about the cloth she’d seen?
“Rufus,” she called, “Come here.”
The dog had retreated out of sight, scared off by the gunfire. It took some coaxing, but finally he crept closer, crouching low and still gripping the torn fabric in his teeth. Miranda squatted and tried to calm her voice to reduce his alarm.
“Bring it, boy. That’s a good dog. Bring it here.”
After a few more hesitant steps, Rufus ran forward, wagging his tail and dropping his find at Miranda’s feet. She sucked in a sudden breath, unable to pick it up. It was part of a jacket sleeve, the cuff cinched closed with a corroded metal button.
Miranda tried to convince herself that did not mean the jacket belonged to the bones she’d glimpsed, but there was no way around it. She would have to take another look to be sure of what she saw.
An involuntary shudder shook her, but she set her shoulders and holstered her gun. Stepping up on a large root that would hold her weight, she pushed her way forward into the hole. Rufus grew agitated when he realized what she was doing, yipping and whining. The sound annoyed her, but with her heart in her throat, she didn’t dare open her mouth to reprimand him. She could smell a damp earthiness and something sour, but nothing so repulsive as the scent of decay. Whatever the bones belonged to, they had been trapped long enough to be scoured clean by the elements.
The skeleton was indeed human. It was too dark in the recess to distinguish whether the remains belonged to an adult or a child, but the skull reflected enough of the dim light for its human shape to be clearly evident.
Miranda pulled back, inhaling deeply as she reached the edge of the creek. She’d been holding her breath without even realizing it. She felt slightly dizzy, either from lack of oxygen or shock, she didn’t know which. She had a sudden memory of Harlan’s tale of runaway slaves. Could the remains possibly be that old?
She knew that was impossible, but it seemed such a preferable alternative that she let herself hope for a minute. It only took another glance at the torn sleeve on the ground to brush aside her delusion. Not only was it unlikely that the remains could be that old, but the fabric was definitely from recent times, some sort of weather repellent synthetic that had proven to be more resistant to the elements than human flesh.
The victim was more likely someone who had been swept away and drowned during the spring rains. Perhaps some local who had gone missing. Once she contacted the authorities, she was sure the sheriff’s department would have a way to identify the person and the cause of death.
Reluctantly, she decided she should take the torn material with her as evidence. Maybe it would help identify the remains. Pulling her left sleeve down to cover her hand, she picked it up with two fingers. Holding it at arm’s length like it was a dead carcass instead of a harmless, relatively clean scrap of cloth, she put it in her backpack before moving on.
Watching for somewhere to scramble up the bank, Miranda hurried back along the creek. She kept her gun holstered, but remained on edge. Rufus was far less troubled than she was, running ahead happily, investigating snake holes and following animal tracks. His unconcern eventually helped Miranda relax a little. If her dog sensed no danger nearby, then likely there was none.
Rufus was actually the one who found a way up the bank to higher ground. A couple of hundred yards upstream from the body, another miniature avalanche had happened earlier that season. The slope consisted mostly of brown crumpled earth that had already begun to grow a layer of weeds and grass. Rufus ran easily up to the top and stood at the edge barking encouragement as Miranda made her way up after him.
The stream had meandered its way to an area she wasn’t familiar with, an overgrown section of scrub trees and vines. By the time Miranda fought through to a clear path, she was hot and sweaty and sure she would break out in poison ivy if she didn’t take a shower as soon as possible.
The discomfort produced a welcome anger which pushed aside all fear. Everything seemed to have gone wrong since her arrival, starting with the storm, accelerating with Harlan’s pressuring her to sell the property, to now having to deal with some unknown skeleton. Part of her was tempted to tell Harlan he could have the place since it seemed to bring nothing but grief. The rest of her, though, was more inclined to hold on to the property just to spite him.
By the time she reached the open field at the back of the farm, she had worked up enough hostility to be furious instead of frightened when she saw a man standing just inside the barn door ahead. He quickly stepped back into the dark interior, but he had clearly been watching her emerge from the woods. It was the same man she’d seen several times already.
“Hey,” she yelled, stepping forward. “I see you. Who are you? What are you doing trespassing on my land?”
Rufus ran ahead of her, disappearing in the barn. If not for that, Miranda might not have been brave enough to venture further, despite the temporary courage anger had given her. She hesitated at the threshold and peered inside.
A late afternoon shaft of sunlight cut through dust particles that swirled as if recently disturbed. Behind a huge pile of moldy loose hay a rusted green tractor sat beside a ladder leading to the loft. Other than that and an ancient four-row plow in one corner, the place was empty.
At least at ground level. From the way Rufus was acting at the foot of the ladder however, it seemed clear that the mysterious trespasser had ascended to the loft. Standing with front paws on the lowest rung, the dog barked incessantly upward, his tail wagging furiously.
Mira
nda pulled her gun, then remembered she had not reloaded after emptying the barrel earlier. Now wasn’t the time to do so, however. She could only hope the intruder wouldn’t notice.
“Show yourself,” Miranda called, not really sure she meant it. “Or I’ll let the sheriff take care of you when he gets here.”
Rufus had stopped barking and now stood looking back at her expectantly. In the silence, she thought she heard rustling above. This was followed by a sifting of dirt and hay falling from between two floorboards.
“No need for that,” a man called down. He stepped into view, hands held up.
Standing above her like that, he seemed freakishly tall, but was actually about six foot two. He wore a brown leather jacket and had brown hair. Though she couldn’t see his eyes clearly from this distance and in the gloom of the barn’s shadows, she knew they were a brilliant green.
Because the man standing above her, this trespassing stranger, was indeed the same one who had been studying her so intently through the window of the small grocery store. The same one she’d seen walking along her timberline. At his side stood the German Shepherd, teeth barred, a low rumble in his throat.
“Butch, stand down.” Keeping his hands in the air, the stranger motioned to the dog.
The German Shepherd obeyed the command like a career soldier, dropping to his haunches. The way he sat at silent attention fit the name, shoulders gathered as if ready to pounce.
“Who are you?” Miranda’s words wavered with a slight tremor, but she kept the gun trained steady on the intruder.
“Luke. Luke Gregorio. I’m not armed and I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Oh, well, since you say so,” Miranda began sarcastically. “Then no problem. I’ll just go back to the house and let you carry on, shall I? What are you doing here?”
