by Glen Krisch
Again, they heard the groaning. They followed the sound, which came from somewhere near the tree line at the base of the deck stairs. A small body was cloaked in darkness, curled up in the sand next to the lean-to, soot-stained and semi-conscious.
“Robby!” Clara called out and rushed to the boy’s side.
The house atop the Little Whisper burned, the sky glowing with false-dawn brightness.
Exhausted, Krista fell to her knees, sending a jolt of pain grating through her shoulder. Tears streaked her face. Clara was safe, and she had never felt a happier moment since the first time she held her in her arms after giving birth. And yet, she couldn’t help feeling the weightiest despair. She couldn’t live without Neal. She doubted she would be able to forge ahead—a broken shell that would never heal.
She sobbed uncontrollably. She couldn’t help it.
“Krista?”
That one word, spoken by that singular voice, scattered the dark cloud before it could fully engulf her. It gave her strength to stand.
Neal stepped away from the final wooden stair. He carried another body in his arms: Trevor. The boy’s dangling arm was blackened with burns. Fire had melted away part of his hair behind his right ear. His skin was a landscape of blistered and suppurating wounds.
“My God,” she said, as more tears filled her eyes.
Neal was crying as well. She wanted to hug him, to feel his closeness, to have their embrace chase away every horrible thing in the world... but she couldn’t. One hug wouldn’t fix the broken child held in her husband’s arms. Krista reached out, touched Neal’s cheek.
“I thought …” She trailed off and shook her head. “I thought you were gone. I thought you were all gone.”
Robby groaned in Neal’s arms as life twitched through his spindly limbs.
Krista’s tears fell afresh. But these were tears of joy. Before long, Clara came over and wrapped her arms around Krista’s waist. Krista reached out and one-arm hugged Neal. Their collective tears were as quickly shed as washed away by the continued rain. Robby joined them, bumping into their collective embrace, hugging them all as much as his tiny arms would allow.
“And Poppa?” Krista asked.
Neal said nothing, just shook his head with his eyes downcast.
CHAPTER 38
THREE MONTHS LATER
Clara stood within the alcove cut into the woods near the road leading to the summer house. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Uncle Jack’s headstone. She didn’t blame him for what had happened, but it was hard for her to see past their final night together in order to remember the sweet man he’d once been. Perhaps, in time, things would change.
She brushed a fallen twig from the top of the other new grave.
“I’m going to miss you, Poppa,” she said, fending off a tear. “I don’t know exactly what you did, or why you did it, but I know you were a good person. I have no doubts.”
The simple stone stood next to Nan’s. While she’d never known her great-grandmother, not in any real sense of the word, she would miss her, too. Without her, Clara wouldn’t be alive. Without her, the evil that had overcome Uncle Jack would have lived on. And in so doing, that spirit would have regained human form.
Huh-loo-suh-ney-shuhn. Even now it was hard to believe the tragedies during the summer had been anything more than a horrible hallucination.
An unfounded or mistaken impression; that was far too simple an explanation for everything she’d experienced. Besides, she couldn’t deny the indelible memory of Nan’s smile as her spirit kept her from falling beneath the waves. That smile had been real, and she would take that memory with her the rest of her life.
Footsteps crunched over fallen leaves as her mom approached.
While she wished that so much of that last night at the summer house had been a hallucination, some things made that denial an impossibility. Besides the memory of Nan’s smile, her mom had only recently set aside the sling, having sustained multiple fractures in her shoulder. Even now, with the bones newly mended, her shoulder dipped lower than the other.
They all bore their scars.
“Are you ready?” her mom said, offering a small smile.
“Sure. I guess.”
Clara exited the newly erected chain-link fence surrounding the graveyard and waited for her mom to close the gate and click the padlock. When their gazes met, Clara was the one to offer a smile.
“What’s going to happen to this place?” she asked.
“The property …” her mom said and trailed off. She placed her arm over Clara’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “The land, it will become part of the new state park. That’s what Poppa always wanted.”
Her mom wouldn’t look at the flattened plane of newly planted sod where the summer house had once stood, but Clara couldn’t help staring. It was both surprising and soothing to see the silvery shimmer of sun on the lake below.
The morning after the storm and the fire, when the police had been called and the place swarming with dozens of emergency responders from three counties wide, a fireman found Uncle Jack face down in the water, about thirty feet down shore.
Within days, a dredging crew had been brought out to search the lake. They found the plastic-shrouded bodies, eleven all-told; each was situated on the lake bottom like numerals on a clock’s face. All that had been missing was the final numeral.
When they reached the Volvo, Clara turned to her mom and said, “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry for what, honey?”
“Everything. What happened to Uncle Jack, Poppa, Breann …”
“Oh, honey, there’s nothing for you to feel sorry for. I’m the one who should be sorry for ever bringing you here.”
“But Mom, we had to come here. Breann, Melody … all those other kids …” Clara sniffed back a tear, “Nan … all of them. They’re at rest now. That wouldn’t have happened if we didn’t come back to the summer house.”
Her mom leaned over and kissed Clara’s forehead. “You, my dear, are far too wise. I feel horrible that you went through what you went through, but I’m glad to hear that perspective.”
Clara smiled a real smile, one not forced or small.
“Are my two ladies ready to get home?” her dad said.
“More than anything,” her mom said.
“Me too.” Clara looked back through the rear window as her dad pulled away from the shoulder. The copse of trees surrounding the graveyard got smaller and smaller, until it disappeared as the car climbed a hill into the surrounding forest.
“Mom, so did you ask Dad?”
“Ask me about what?” her dad said, and Clara could see the glimmer in his eye and that her parents had already discussed it.
“My birthday, silly,” Clara said with a giggle.
“You have a birthday coming up?” her dad said.
“In two weeks. You didn’t forget, did you?”
“No, of course not.” He looked at her in the rearview mirror and gave her a wink. “And the answer is yes. Your Aunt Leah and all three cousins are coming out for your birthday.”
“Are you sure there’s room?” Clara asked with a touch of worry.
“It’s going to be a tight squeeze, but it’ll be easier next year.”
“Neal, you said we shouldn’t mention anything—”
Clara’s dad smiled and shrugged. “What can I say? I can’t stand sitting on good news.”
Clara leaned forward between the front seats. “What are you guys talking about?”
“We’re thinking about moving. Somewhere with more room. The suburbs maybe?” Clara’s mom said.
“Just imagine, a place with a big back yard with plenty of trees. A bedroom for everyone. Maybe one of those mother-in-law cottages for Aunt Leah.”
“Really?” Clara said, elated. “The whole family in one place?”
“We were going to talk about it more when we got home … but yeah,” her dad said.
“Is that okay with you?” her mom said, hesitantly, as if she feared Clara’s response. “I know you’re used to having your own space—”
“Absolutely!” Clara said. “Can we get a tire swing?”
“Sure,” he said and her parents laughed and exchanged a glance. “Anything you want. See, Krista, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Her mom kissed her fingertips and pressed them against his cheek. Clara smiled and her mom pulled a sheaf of papers onto her lap. “Now, Clara, I know you want to jump right back into your Spelling Bee list.”
“Mom,” Clara said, meeting her dad’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Top ten is outstanding,” her mom continued, “but with enough practice—”
“Honey?” her dad cut in.
“Yes?” Her mom looked up from her papers and arched an eyebrow.
“Listen to your daughter,” he said with a wink.
“Clara, what is it, honey?”
“Mom … I want to just, I don’t know … stare out the window for a while.”
“Hmm … yeah, okay,” her mom said, nodding in understanding. She put the papers back into the folder. Her dad reached out, and her parents held hands as the car cut through impenetrable forests shedding their leaves to the season.
Clara touched the heart charm hanging from the chain around her neck. She stared out the window and let her mind wander.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A native of the Chicago suburbs, Glen Krisch hopes to add to his list of ghosts he’s witnessed (two), as well as develop his rather pedestrian telekinetic and precognitive skills. Besides writing and reading, he enjoys spending time with his wife, his three boys, simple living, and ultra-running.
OTHER WORKS
NOVELS
The Nightmare Within
Where Darkness Dwells
Nothing Lasting
Arkadium Rising: Brother’s Keeper Book One
Little Whispers
Echoes of Violence
Gleaners: Brother’s Keeper Book Two
NOVELLAS
Loss
The Hollowed Land: A Brother’s Keeper Novella
Husks
The Painter from Piotrków
COLLECTIONS
Through the Eyes of Strays
Commitment and Other Tales of Madness
No Man’s Dominion
Filth Eater
The Devil’s Torment
