by Carrie Bates
On one of the good days, they sat eating dinner in the dining room, side by side at their enormous table. Anything smaller would have looked ridiculous in the room.
“I think,” Brad began, setting down his silverware, “that you should let me take over most of your clients. Just the small ones,” he went on, expecting her to protest. “You have your hands full enough. Let me take care of the minor accounts. You focus on the big guys. You were always better at talking them into investments.” He smiled at her, remembering back when they first met, how taken he’d been by her ability to persuade people on almost any topic.
Camille was frowning, gazing off into space. She considered his offer very seriously. Camille was never one to give up on her work, but this would only be temporary. And she did have a lot to do, preparing the bedroom next to theirs for the baby. She already had a rocking chair and changing table picked out. Everything would be teal and honey-colored. And…she wouldn’t have to spend time in the office anymore. She could easily handle her bigger clients just a day or two a week, a few phone calls made in the kitchen.
“All right,” she agreed, smiling back at Brad, who smiled even wider. When things were like this – when they could easily discuss the future and the best way to go about things – they each fell a little more in love with one another.
But that didn’t always last.
As Camille was well into the first trimester, she spent her time doing chores and crying randomly. No matter how calmly Brad spoke to her, she couldn’t help feeling that they were growing apart. At night he slept on his side, facing away from her, and he grew annoyed whenever she backed up against him, afraid to fall asleep.
“Stop being ridiculous,” was something he said a lot these days. Camille kept crying, and he kept storming around upstairs, angry and unable to understand what the problem was.
One afternoon when it smelled like snow in the air, Camille was carrying the basket of laundry downstairs. She wore a huge over-sized sweatshirt, white jersey shorts, and fluffy socks. Altogether, she knew she looked ridiculous, but Brad had commented earlier that she was cute, and it had brought a little happiness to her morning.
Just six steps away from the first floor landing, Camille gasped, feeling large hands grip her shoulders and push. She didn’t have time to reach out and try to grab the railing. Instead, she tumbled over the laundry basket, arms wrapped around her middle, shouting for Brad.
It wasn’t that far of a fall. But the push had added extra force.
When Brad came running down the stairs, he found Camille howling in pain, clutching a dislocated shoulder. He moved around her quickly, speaking words of reassurance.
Then he saw the blood. It was seeping quickly through her white shorts and onto the soiled clothes strewn everywhere. He froze.
“Brad,” she gasped, trying to turn herself so that she could see him. Her husband bolted into the kitchen for the phone and dialed 911 immediately.
Chapter Seven
The days that followed were hard for them both, but strangely enough, the tragedy drew them back together. They needed each other to get through this. And Camille was more open now – she talked to Brad quietly about how, when she was better, she wanted to try again. Losing a child had made her realize how much she really wanted one.
She still slept in most mornings, but was slowly getting back to her work routine. She even made one or two trips into the city to collect her things and end the lease on the office. Brad drove her there, and on the way back out to the country, she asked if he could stop at a store where she bought long black-out curtains that she hung in her home office so that she couldn’t see into the back yard.
She wasn’t allowed to stretch or do too much physical activity, so Brad was reaching up to put the curtains up as she stared out into the dark.
“I think we should get that tree cut down,” she said firmly. One of her hands ghosted across her stomach. Brad looked from his wife to the old gnarled oak in the yard.
“Any particular reason?” he asked, even though he would do anything for her. She was very pale and quieter than she ever had been. He just wanted to see her get better.
“It’s a hazard,” she said, turning away from the window. “The branches reach out over the area where we wanted to put the garden shed. It would only take one good storm for that thing to come down. And if – if we have kids…”
She trailed off, but Brad nodded. Back when he’d come to see the house without her, he had imagined putting a swing up on one of those big branches. But he could see why she was worried, and readily agreed.
“I’ll call someone in the morning,” he said, putting a hand on her lower back as they walked from the room to the staircase.
Camille put a hand on the railing and shivered. It took another reassuring touch from Brad for her to make her way upstairs and to bed.
* * *
Later that night, Camille woke up gasping.
She’d been dreaming that she couldn’t breathe – but it wasn’t just a dream. She woke to hands tight around her throat, her mouth already wide open trying to suck in air.
She tried to kick and found that there was a heavy weight on top of her. Eyes wide, she stared up into the face of a man – a handsome man.
Her mind went immediately to the man she hadn’t seen or dreamt of since the miscarriage. Was he back?
But no – it was Brad. He shifted over her, and she recognized his determined mouth and striking eyes. He was staring down at her, the muscles in his arms flexing as he tightened his hold on her throat.
“Brad!” she choked out, tilting her head back to try and get more air in. The crazed, lustful look in his eyes only intensified. She’d never seen him like this. He was always gentle with her, even when they were messing around, even when they were passionate.
Brad’s hair, which had grown out in neglect, hung over his forehead and into his eyes. It obscured his gaze long enough that he removed one hand to push it back, and then she saw the hopelessness there.
“Brad,” she choked out again, hoping to reach him in this moment of despair. “Brad, it’s me. It’s Cam..ille…”
Her vision was starting to darken. She stopped struggling, confused but tired. Just as she was giving in to the fuzziness, Brad’s fingers loosened, and he gasped out her name.
“Oh, god,” he moaned, gathering her up and pulling her to his chest. She struggled briefly, still scared of him, and he scrambled back from her. “Oh god Camille, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me!”
He was crouched on the bed, his pajamas wrinkled and his hair disheveled. He ran a hand through it, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated, gripping the comforter tight in his hands.
Camille had her own hand at her throat, gasping in air as her heart rate went back to normal. She stared at her husband. Just moments ago, he hadn’t seemed himself, even if he’d looked it. Brad would have never put his hands on her. They’d been married eight years, together for fifteen, and she’d never seen an ounce of violence in him.
She had a decision to make as she sat across from him, watching him break down. She could either move further away and alienate him, or go to him and soothe him.
Camille scooted forward and reached out to put her palm on his knee. He searched her face, making sure she was okay before wrapping a hand around her wrist and pulling her close gently.
“I’m sorry,” he started to say again, quietly, but he was interrupted by a deep growl.
Camille froze, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. She felt Brad stiffen in her arms. They both looked to the far corner of the room, where the sound had come from, and as soon as they saw the dark form there, Brad turned himself so that he was between the figure and his wife.
“Camille,” he said quietly, in warning, but the figure was moving quickly – it scrambled up the wall and onto the ceiling. Brad pushed Camille back, keeping his body over her own protectively, caging her in against the mattress.
/> As it reached the area of the ceiling over the bed, the shadow took a more definite shape. It was a man. As large as Brad, but leaner, clinging to the ceiling and baring his teeth at them. Camille recognized the handsome, repulsive face immediately.
“It’s him,” she gasped quietly, her fingernails biting into Brad’s bicep. They both felt the pressure in the room. If they didn’t leave now, whatever this was, was going to kill them.
Without speaking, Brad catapulted off the bed and pulled Camille’s petite frame into his arms. He rushed her from the room and down the stairway, prying open the front door. They both bolted across the yard to the SUV, peeling out of the driveway and heading toward the city.
Chapter Eight
Camille was the first to return to the town a week later.
A neighbor had called Brad to let him know that he’d seen the front door wide open when out at the mailbox, and had gone over to lock and close it. Brad thanked him, but let him know that they’d be out of town for quite some time.
They rented a hotel suite and spent days pacing the luxurious rooms, trying to cope with what they’d experienced. Brad eventually had to get back to work calling clients and letting them know how their investments were doing. It was when he was catching up on these calls that Camille swiped the keys, got in the car, and drove back to the small town they’d come to love.
She didn’t go back to the house. Instead, she took a right off of Main Street and headed toward the library.
It was an old, old building that the plaque out front identified as the house of the original mayor. The woodwork inside reminded her of the mansion, and she found it both beautiful and terrifying. Standing under one particularly ornate archway, she shivered.
“Can I help you?” someone asked, and Camille turned to see an older woman in spectacles waiting patiently near a desk. She appeared to be checking in books.
“Um, I think so,” Camille answered, moving toward the desk. She leaned against it to rest. Her body was still tired from the miscarriage and the trauma of whatever had tried to corner them in the house earlier that week. Even though she trusted Brad, she wasn’t yet sleeping easily next to him.
“My husband and I bought a house in town last spring, and we wanted to know a bit more about the history.”
“Of the house, or the town?” the woman asked, putting down her books.
“Well…both, I suppose, if you can tell me anything about the house. It’s very old, I think.”
The woman smiled at her and came fully around the desk. She was taller than Camille but wiry. She wore no wedding ring, and moved confidently toward an area where tables were spread out comfortably for the patrons.
“Which house was it that you bought?” she asked, winding her way through the tables. Camille followed closely.
“The one on Birch Ave. With the yellow door and the lilacs in the yard.”
“Ahh,” the librarian said, smiling. “I’ve always loved that house. Even thought about buying it a few years back when it was on the market again. But town jobs don’t pay what they used to, and I figured it would be for sale again soon enough.”
“What makes you say that?” Camille asked, frowning. Even after being chased from her own house, she wasn’t yet willing to part with it.
“It’s always been on and off the market. Before you bought it, the previous owners only lived there for two months. The husband…well, they had a turn of bad luck, and he just couldn’t forgive himself. He took his own life.”
“Not…in the back yard?” Camille asked, her memory flashing back to the man hanging in the tree. The librarian eyed her.
“No, not in the back yard. I don’t even think he was at the house. They found him in his car out at the lake. He’d left a note on the counter for his wife, though.”
“Oh. My husband never mentioned that, the realtor must not have told him.”
The librarian shook her head. They’d stopped in front of a tall, dark bookshelf. “No, she must have notified him. It’s the law.”
“Maybe he…forgot to tell me,” Camille amended, though both she and the woman knew that wasn’t the truth. She’d be asking him about that later, when she returned to the hotel. “And the house was on the market a lot before that?”
“Yes, very often. I think the longest it’s ever been owned was about two years. But to be honest, I can’t tell you much more than that. Very few documents remain after the fire that happened in 1888, but luckily, we have books written about the town history.” She gestured to the shelf, smiling, and Camille leaned forward to look.
A few books were about local artists or writers. Some were on the architecture, others specifically about family lineages. Camille thanked the woman and squatted down to search the shelf in earnest.
After a few minutes, she found a thick, older, red-bound book about the general history of the town. It was heavy in her hands as she stood, and she turned to find a table.
Camille leafed through the first few pages, looking mostly at the photos. The book was just over two-hundred pages long. When she didn’t recognize any of the houses pictured as her own, she went back to the beginning and sighed.
Before she’d even gotten past the introduction, she found what she was looking for.
The book dove immediately into the origin of the town land. Camille’s eyes widened as she read. She picked the book up, careful to keep her place, and moved back toward the desk where the woman was now leafing through some paperwork.
“Excuse me,” she said quietly, smiling when the librarian looked up, “I just wanted to check…this book says the entire town was originally lived on by the Sioux?”
“Oh, yes,” the librarian answered, brightening. “Before the genocides and the assimilation, this was all native territory. The Sioux here were lucky, though. The land was bought mostly by French traders who they got along with well.”
“And this map here – is it accurate?” asked Camille, turning the book so that the librarian could see as she leaned over the desk. The woman studied the old, thin paper, eyes pinched. She backed up a bit, glancing at Camille.
“Uh…yes. Yes, that’s definitely correct. I recognize this map from the town records. It’s the agreed upon measurements for the layout of the town.”
Camille was breathing quickly, her chest heaving. She closed her eyes briefly. In her pocket her phone vibrated, and she was sure that it was Brad looking for her. He could wait. At the moment, she wasn’t in the right mindset to talk to him. She could feel anger rising in her chest.
“You’re sure?” she asked, fingers still holding down the map, eyes boring into the librarian. “Because if this map is right, then my house is on burial ground.”
The librarian cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable. “Well, yes,” she said, pointing down at the inked paper. “Not the regular burial ground, though, that was listed as a protected part of town history twelve years ago…”
“I know,” Camille interrupted. “Just tell me. Is this the same area where my house is, now?”
The woman was staring down at the map. She pushed her hair back from her face, where it suddenly stuck to a thin sheen of sweat. “Yes,” she answered. “Your house is on the burial ground for the criminally insane. The tribe didn’t call them that, of course. To them it was sacred ground – even if the people buried there committed terrible crimes.” She glanced up at Camille. “I’m not usually superstitious but…it explains a lot.”
“It does,” Camille commented quietly, but her mind was elsewhere. She was thinking of Brad. She met the librarian’s eyes. “Would my husband have known about this?” she asked, her hand going to their plot of land on the map.
The woman shook her head. “No. The town doesn’t usually give the history of a residential building unless the owners come looking for it. And they keep all of the records here, in the basement, not at town hall.” She paused, eyeing Camille. “The realtor would have told him about the suicide, though. Even if it didn’t happen at the h
ouse. I know her – Meg Forbes. She’s a notorious gossip. She would’ve let that slip before they even set foot in the house, I imagine.”
* * *
Camille was fuming on the drive back to the hotel. She took corners a bit too fast, and played out the conversation she planned on having with Brad as soon as she got back. Her cell kept pinging, and she knew it was him calling.
He was at the door as soon as he heard her come in.
“Where were you?” he asked, clearly worried. “I’ve been calling you all morning.”
“I went back to town,” she bit out, throwing her purse in a chair. Brad’s eyes widened.
“You didn’t go back to the house…?”
“No, I didn’t go back to the house. But you should have mentioned what happened there, Brad.”
She watched her husband’s face tinge pink. He didn’t meet her eyes.
“I know about the suicide,” she continued. “The man who lived there before us. Why didn’t you say anything?”
He shrugged. “Honestly…I didn’t think it was that important. It didn’t happen there, and the house was so beautiful, I knew you would fall in love with it.” He stepped forward, reaching out for her. “I’m sorry Camille. I was just trying to make you happy. And make a home for us.”
All at once her annoyance dissipated. She softened in her husband’s arms, breathing him in. “You should have told me,” she murmured.
He rubbed his chin against the top of her head. “How’d you even find out about it?”
Remembering what else she’d discovered, she stepped back to look up at him. “I went to the library. The librarian showed me this book on the local history. You’re not going to believe what that house is sitting on, Brad.”
Brad accepted the truth much quicker than Camille did. He’d grown up in a house full of superstitions, his mother throwing salt over her shoulder whenever she dropped it, his father stepping purposefully over the crack in the doorway. “That explains a lot,” he muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m surprised anyone even thought to build a house there. There are areas all over the country that tribes still protect because their dead are buried there.”
