Setting the lantern on a tall stack of crates, she went to work at prying open the coffin lid, using one of the shovels for leverage. Despite her best efforts to remain silent, the nails gave a shrill screech as they pulled free. Abigail cringed at the noise. She was fairly confident the rain would drown out what few sounds she made, but she couldn’t be certain. Anyone could be out there, passing within earshot at any moment.
With the lid finally free, Abigail laid it aside, careful not to bend the nails. She then retrieved the lantern and played the dim light over the open space.
What she saw there shocked her to no end.
Inside the crude coffin was a pulpy mass of mangled flesh and fractured bones. With the exception of Chester Prue’s blood-soaked clothes, what remained of the man was barely recognizable as human. The entire area from his pelvis to sternum had been crushed, the bones pulverized into hundreds of pieces that resided beneath the skin like sticks in a bloody sack. Without a solid skeleton to hold it together, the corpse had begun to come apart like a scarecrow losing its stuffing. Prue’s right arm was detached entirely from his crushed shoulder socket and now lay splayed across his crumpled chest. The lower vertebrae of the spine were obliterated. Above the waist, the torso had been nearly divided from the lower half of the body and was held together by skin alone. A large portion of ropy viscera bulged from a long tear in the flesh below the man’s gut.
Worst of all was Prue’s head. The skull had been smashed flat and oozing heaps of gray matter were visible between shards of shattered cranium. The waxy skin of Prue’s ruined face sagged loosely like some hideous mask waiting to be worn on All Hallows’ Eve.
Never in all of her adventures had Abigail seen such catastrophic damage inflicted on a human body. She recoiled involuntarily as a scorching rush of bile leaped into her throat. Struggling to keep from retching, she gasped for air but found it poisoned by the rancid stench emanating from the crate. For a moment, she was overcome by a wild impulse to flee the shed, to escape to where she could gulp deeply of the fresh night air. Steeling her nerves, she closed her eyes and waited for the momentary nausea to pass before returning to the makeshift casket and setting about her grisly task.
She began with the dismembered right arm. Abigail’s hands shook slightly as she removed the limb from its place and turned it over, searching for the blackened fingernails that were one of the telltale signs of spirit possession. Aside from the normal dirt and grime that was to be expected of a lumberjack, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Abigail replaced the bloody limb where she had found it and looked for the left arm. It was nowhere to be seen. A prickle of revulsion rippled across her skin when she realized it was pinned somewhere beneath the mutilated torso. She would have to reach in and search for it.
Abigail drew a deep breath as she rounded the crate to the other side. With her air held in her lungs, she plunged her hands into the reeking mess. The dead man’s clammy flesh was spongy and yielding beneath her fingers as she reached into the bottom of the crate. Just five more minutes, she told herself as her throat constricted against another fiery rush of bile. Five more minutes and you’ll have the answers you need.
Her palms located a hand and she raised it up into the feeble light to give the fingernails the same thorough inspection. Again, there was nothing unusual.
Abigail felt a swift prick of doubt as she let the limp arm drop back into the crate and wiped her bloody hands on a rag she found atop another crate. Perhaps she had been right all along; perhaps this wasn’t a haunting at all.
Prue’s head was the last to be examined.
Moving to the upper end of the crate, Abigail positioned herself over the man’s shattered skull. Clumps of thick, salt-and-pepper hair hung from the shredded flaps of scalp. She peered down at the grisly remnants of Prue’s face and hesitated a moment as she considered how to proceed. Ordinarily, she would begin with an inspection of the eyes, searching for the early onset of cataracts. But both of Prue’s eyeballs had ruptured under the crushing weight of the fallen tree. They had now disappeared somewhere into the viscous mix of blood and brain. Without a skull to give them shape, the empty sockets below his brow were oblong and drooping.
Abigail proceeded to the next step in her process: Prue’s mouth. She held her breath once more and stooped low, leaning very close to get a look at the slack lips. With her face now mere inches from the stinking mass of twisted body parts, the charnel smell of blood and viscera assaulted her mercilessly. Abigail fought an irresistible urge to gag as she examined the area around Prue’s lips, looking for signs of bruising. In the dim light of the lantern, it seemed a nearly impossible task. The flesh was too severely spoiled and was already turning color with decay. Still, from what she could ascertain, all of the damage had been sustained at the time of Prue’s death, not before. Yet another significant mark of possession was absent.
Abigail let her breath out and pursed her lips as she stood up. Only one more test remained now. She took a moment to stretch her neck and prepare herself. What would come next would be the most unpleasant of all.
Reaching down, she very gently inserted her two index fingers into Prue’s wilting mouth. Working slowly and gingerly, she eased her thumbs in and began to part the lips. The sensation against her skin was moist and spongy, not unlike poking the insides of a pig’s carcass. Abigail became conscious of her heart pounding in her chest and she willed herself to be calm. When the gap between the dead man’s lips was wide enough, she leaned in once more to take a closer look inside the mouth.
The only solid things present inside the hollow cavity were the hard, yellow bits of what she understood to be Prue’s crushed teeth. Abigail plucked one from his mouth and deposited it in her pocket for later examination. She then peered closer, angling her head to get a better look at the gray lump of the man’s tongue. Again, there was no trace of the discoloration she was looking for.
A strange apprehension came over Abigail as she carefully withdrew her fingers, wiped them on the rag, and stepped back. There was no longer any doubt: Prue’s corpse didn’t bear a single sign of spirit possession.
Instead of feeling satisfied, an uneasy sensation continued to gnaw at Abigail’s gut. All of the evidence presented by Prue’s remains confirmed her suspicions that his death was nothing more than a terrible suicide. But now, with the horrific heap of flesh and bone before her, Abigail couldn’t bring herself to believe that any man would deliberately choose such a fate. Somehow, it just didn’t seem possible.
Abigail was unable to shake the nagging sensation that she had missed something. She began to wonder about Prue’s missing eyes. Perhaps they would have revealed the vital clue she was looking for? Perhaps they—
A sudden sound came from outside the shed.
Chapter 9
Abigail froze and listened. Was that a footstep? A long moment passed in silence. Then she heard it again: the clear, unmistakable crack of a twig echoing through the forest.
Someone was coming.
Abigail’s blood went cold as a stark awareness of her vulnerability washed over her. How could she have let herself be so careless? She had been so engrossed in her examination of Prue’s corpse that she had momentarily forgotten where she was and the danger she was in.
Now she was trapped.
Abigail remained very still, her heart racing, hoping against hope that whoever was out there would continue along the path. Instead, the steady crunch of footfalls on the wet forest floor only grew louder as they approached the shed.
Abigail’s eyes darted around the closed space. There seemed nowhere to hide. Discovery was unavoidable.
Grabbing the coffin lid, she quietly replaced it atop the crate, hoping that whoever came through the door wouldn’t notice that it was no longer nailed shut. She then snatched the lantern and crept into the shadows at the far end of the shed. There, she discovered a narrow space between the back wall and a tall stack of crates. Within moments, she had opened enough of a gap to sque
eze herself between the wooden boxes and the wall.
She quickly doused the lantern.
Darkness rushed over Abigail as she stood motionless in her cramped hiding space. How long had her efforts taken her? Thirty seconds? More? And how much had the approaching stranger heard? Flattened against the wall, Abigail quieted her breathing as she listened for the crunch of footsteps.
Nothing.
Nearly a minute passed in silence.
The footsteps had stopped.
Trapped in the darkness, Abigail could only imagine what was happening beyond the shed door. First, the stranger would notice the padlock hanging open from the latch. He might even see the fresh footprints she had left in the mud. Would he suspect that someone could be hiding inside? Or would he assume that whoever had brought Prue’s body here had simply forgotten to lock the door?
The shed door swung open.
Abigail stiffened, her pulse thudding in her throat.
The bright glare of a lantern banished the darkness. The creak of rusty hinges was followed by the thump of a heavy boot. The weight of the tread confirmed that the stranger was a man. More footsteps resounded as he strode across the floor to Prue’s coffin.
Then silence.
Abigail held her breath. Her mind cast about for any clues she might have left behind in her rush to hide. The bloody rag? The pine needles strewn across the floor? The muddy footprints? All seemed incidental, easily attributed to the men who had brought Prue’s remains to the shed. But what about the coffin itself? Had the man already noticed it had been disturbed? With his suspicions raised, would he think to search the entire shed?
Abigail tried to come up with some way to explain herself if she were discovered. There was none. She saw only two options: she could either surrender or fight. At her present disadvantage, neither promised a favorable outcome.
Another footstep.
The glare of the lantern suddenly grew brighter.
The man was coming her way.
From the corner of her eye, Abigail could see the shadows evaporating around her as the man advanced deeper into the rear of the shed. Everything was happening too quickly for her to react. A lantern swung into view and she felt its warm, revealing glow fall upon her. The man’s face remained obscured behind the light, but Abigail could actually feel the weight of his eyes as he gazed at her. It was a terrible sensation, the awful awareness of being at the mercy of another. She braced herself for the inevitable: an angry voice; rough hands seizing her, dragging her out into the light.
Nothing happened.
For one seemingly endless moment, there was only the steady drum of the rain as she stood there, feeling naked and utterly exposed in the lantern's light.
And then, the man did something very odd.
To Abigail’s astonishment, the light swung away and she was once again plunged into shadows. She heard footsteps retreating across the floor and the glow of the lantern receded with them. There was the long, slow squeal of rusty hinges as the shed door swung shut.
Darkness closed in. The man was gone.
Paralyzed with fear and confusion, Abigail refused to move. What had just happened? It had to be a trap. The man was attempting to lure her out into the open where he could ambush her more easily. And yet, why bother toying with her? Perhaps he was waiting to see what she would do next, hoping to gain some insight into what she was doing in the shed in the first place. It was the only explanation Abigail could think of.
Five minutes stretched into ten as she remained in her hiding spot, listening intently for even the slightest noise that might give away the man’s intentions.
None came.
At last, Abigail’s nerves could take no more. If the man was indeed outside waiting for her, she would have to confront him eventually. She couldn't run and she couldn't talk her way out of this. There was no point in further delaying the unavoidable.
Slipping from her hiding spot, Abigail felt her way through the darkness until she bumped against the crate that held Prue’s remains. She remained there a moment longer, listening and hearing nothing. For a brief instant, she entertained the absurd possibility that the man hadn’t seen her. But then she remembered the warmth of the lantern’s light, the unpleasant sensation of his eyes on her, the sheer helplessness she had felt under his gaze.
There was no way he had missed her.
Another thought struck her. Could the man have locked her in the shed while he went to find others?
A chill shot up Abigail’s spine. Maybe she was trapped.
She moved swiftly across the floorboards, pressed her hands to the door, and pushed hard. It swung open easily. A cool splash of rain spattered over her as her apprehension deepened. Why had the man left the shed unlocked? She was a stranger in town, trespassing on company property where the remains of a dead lumberjack were being held. Why was she being allowed to leave freely?
Abigail began to shiver and she threw the hood of her cloak over her head to repel the rain streaming through the boughs as she scanned the darkness of the forest one last time. Her intuition told her she was alone.
The man had vanished into the night.
An unsettling dread took root in Abigail’s stomach as she returned to the shed and pressed the coffin nails back into their holes, sealing the lid shut. The anxious feeling only grew more insistent as she fled through the downpour back to her cabin. She had been in Tahawus less than a day and she had already made a costly mistake.
Someone knew her secret. And whoever it was now had her at a terrible disadvantage.
Chapter 10
A knock at the cabin door brought Abigail out of sleep. She shot up in her bed as the memory of the previous nights’ events leaped into focus: the storage shed; Prue's body; the lantern light falling across her; the heavy tread of the man’s footsteps walking away, letting her go.
Another knock.
A slow sense of foreboding came over her. Had the villagers simply waited for daylight before coming for her? Were they here to seize her after all?
Part of Abigail welcomed the prospect of a confrontation as she cast her blankets aside and slid her feet into her woolen slippers. She couldn’t tolerate the thought of being forced to wait and wonder who the mysterious man in the shed had been and what he might eventually do with the secret they now shared. The awful sense of vulnerability made her feel violated. It was far better to get it all over with now.
Throwing a heavy shawl over her flannel nightgown, Abigail went to where her rain-soaked cloak hung from a crooked peg behind the door. The lock picks were still in the pocket. She quickly sorted them, selecting the most useful and tucking them deep into her knee-high stockings. There was every chance the men outside would put her in irons. If she were left alone for even a couple of minutes, she could free herself.
But then what? How would she get out of town and down the mountain?
There wasn’t time to think about it now. Abigail let the hem of her shift fall back to her ankles, drew a deep breath, and pulled the door open.
Instead of armed men, she discovered a young woman smiling at her in the yellow morning sunlight.
"Ms. Jacobs? My name is Evelyn MacIntyre,” the woman announced. A heavy Scottish brogue colored her voice. “Mr. Colvin has asked me to show ye’ around this morning. Would ye’ care for some breakfast?"
“How very kind of you, Mrs. MacIntyre,” Abigail said, doing her best to hide her relief as she accepted the breakfast basket the woman offered. “Won’t you please come inside?”
Abigail stood aside and took note of the round bump of Evelyn’s pregnant belly as the young woman entered the cabin. Evelyn MacIntyre was shorter than Abigail and maybe five years younger, in her early twenties. She had thick red hair that was tied in a neat bun behind her head. Her bright green eyes were flecked with copper and a dusting of freckles was sprinkled across her pert nose and milk-white cheeks. She wore a dun-colored gown stretched tight over her bulging belly and a woolen cape draped over
her shoulders.
“Here, please be seated,” Abigail motioned to the hard bed. “I’m afraid I’ve nothing more comfortable to offer.”
“Nor are ye’ likely to find any.” Evelyn sat and flashed a smile that revealed her small, pearly teeth. “A woman grows accustomed to her share of privation out here in the rough country.”
“Yes, I suppose it will take some time to adapt,” Abigail agreed with a glance around the spartan room. Located at the end of a meandering trail about a five-minute walk from the center of the village, her cabin was built of rounded logs chinked together with plaster mortar. It consisted of one square room of perhaps fifteen by fifteen feet. Her wooden cot was pushed into the back corner, padded only by a thin straw mattress. Next to it stood a crude nightstand on which Abigail had found the hurricane lantern she had used on the previous night’s excursion. Her two traveling trunks were arranged against the wall opposite the bed, beneath the drab curtains of the cabin’s only window. Next to them was a rickety table. A pot-bellied stove stood in the other back corner. The cramped space smelled of musty woodsmoke and dampness.
Abigail took a seat on the lid of the larger of her trunks and balanced the breakfast basket in her lap. Tucked into a clean cloth was a small loaf of freshly baked rye bread, a hunk of cheese, and an apple.
Evelyn took notice of Abigail’s pleased reaction. “Couldn’a help but notice ye’ missing from the mess hall this morning and I thought you’d be hungry. Did ye’ sleep well, Ms. Jacobs?"
"Like the dead," Abigail lied. In her experience, the dead often didn't rest well at all.
"I see you’ve got yourself a leak to contend with," Evelyn observed, nodding at a washbasin that sat nearly overflowing on the floor.
Abigail bit into the apple. “It would seem so, yes. That was quite a storm last night.”
The Suicide Lake (Book of Shadows 2) Page 5
