Gravestone

by Travis Thrasher

  “Mom, you’re just dreaming.”

  “He’s real, Chris. He’s real, and he’s been coming ever since we got here.”

  I shiver and shove the fear away. One of us needs to be sane and strong. It’s gotta be me.

  “It’s just a nightmare, Mom.”

  “No.”

  “Remember when I found you outside that one night?”

  “This is different.”

  “What do you mean? How is it different?”

  She tightens her mouth and seems to try and swallow but can’t. I go into her bathroom and get her a glass of water. I hand it to her as she sits on the edge of her bed, looking at the wall across from her. A bare and empty wall. No pictures, no art, nothing.

  She takes a sip. A little bit of water is still on her lips and dribbles down the side of her chin.

  She’s like a child. I swear this is ridiculous.

  “He’s real and I feel him.”

  “Come on.”

  “I’m not trying to frighten you, Chris.”

  “You’re not frightening me. At least not with what you’re describing.”

  Your insanity’s freaking me out.

  “I wasn’t drinking tonight.”

  “I know.”

  “I swear, Chris.”

  “Mom, I know.”

  “I saw him. I felt him. He’s real. He’s real and he has red eyes that glow in the night under the covers and he came for me. He wants me, Chris.”

  I go to open my mouth, but then I feel it tighten. I feel my eyes water up and my soul get showered on, and I feel like I’m about ready to just unleash a really seriously embarrassing bout of tears. I slide my hand over my mouth and then bite my skin to get some reality back.

  Mom rubs her arms like they’re dirty, like she’s cold.

  “Can I make you something? Something warm?”

  She only shakes her head. She leans back on her bed, and I try to uncoil the blanket to put it over her. I see her profile on the edge of the pillow. Her eyes are still wide open, once again looking at the wall.

  Can you see something I can’t?

  I want to ask her what I should do. I don’t know.

  You gotta call Dad.

  “Mom—”

  “Lock your door, Chris. And keep that dog by your side.”

  For a second I look back through the door. I can’t see anything outside it.

  But I wonder.

  “He’s real, Chris. He’s real.”

  I wait for a while and watch as her eyes close. Then I shut the door and make sure our front and back doors are locked. I stand in the family room in the pitch black, and I wait. I listen. I stand still to see if I can hear anything. Something moving in our house. Outside our house. In Mom’s bedroom. Maybe even below us.

  But I don’t hear anything.

  I only feel cold and creeped out.

  I go upstairs and do what Mom told me to do. I lock the door. Then I bring Midnight up by my chest and stroke her with my hand as I wait for the night to be over.

  Sunrise always takes too long to come.

  29. The Warning

  The Crag’s Inn is impossible to find. The bumping, twisting road starts to make me carsick.

  After reading the map Mom gave me and telling her no road exists out this far on this stretch of dirt road, we stumble upon it. A side road to a side road. One going slightly upward and the next going straight up as if it’s daring you to try to drive it.

  The thought of doing this every week is insane.

  But what isn’t insane, Chris? You gotta go up the hill to fall off it.

  “This map must be old.”

  “It’s the latest they had,” Mom says.

  “Maybe someone doesn’t want this road on a map. Think about that?”

  “Perhaps, but someone does want some part-time work.”

  “It’s part-time work to get here.”

  “We just got turned around.”

  “I swear,” I say, trying to fold the map and then just crumpling it up and tossing it into the backseat. “There are twice as many roads around here as that map shows.”

  “Some of these roads might not even be listed. Who knows.”

  “I think Solitary isn’t listed. The town people forgot. Like the evil little child in class.”

  “Stop it.”

  The road we’re on is bumpy with several large gashes in its center. It coils upward, going straight along the hill and then veering around and continuing the opposite way.

  “Those are from rain and snow draining down,” Mom says, meaning the ruts in the road.

  “Great. I really don’t feel like barfing right now.”

  “We’re almost there.”

  “You don’t even know if we’re on the right road.”

  But we both know. There doesn’t have to be a creepy sign for creepy to be all over this.

  After we going back and forth like a yo-yo, my nausea seriously getting worse from the road and from reading in the car, the road takes one more turn and then levels out. The trees are denser here than anywhere we’ve passed so far. The sky is blocked from view. The road ends in a dead end, with no driveway or parking place around. It just ends with a house nearly hidden amidst trees.

  “That looks abandoned,” I say.

  “That’s why she needs help.”

  “What? Cutting down trees?”

  “Be respectful, okay?”

  “Am I ever not?”

  “Even with your mother.”

  I roll my eyes as she stops the car. I can hear the sound of birds here. They’re loud, and it seems like they’re everywhere, like we’re standing outside an exhibit at Brookfield Zoo back in Chicago.

  “You first,” I say, only half joking.

  We’re facing the side of a dark log cabin with a giant stone chimney arched in its center like a church steeple. It’s hard to tell the size of the inn. The cabin is oddly shaped, with a slanting dark tin roof on one side and a porch on the other, an upstairs window and then slightly off to one side a bottom window underneath it, then another deck on the left side of the house. It looks like a kid put it together with Legos and made it uneven and out of whack.

  “Come on,” Mom says.

  I get out and stare at the trees around us. They’re so dense I can’t see any end in sight. I turn to try and find a door, since there’s no sidewalk or driveway or walkway.

  Mom is heading toward the deck on the right side, which has some remnants of steps going up to it. I pass something that at first resembles a mailbox, then I see it’s a wooden sign with a faded emblem on it.

  On top of this sign is the most brilliant blue bird I’ve ever seen.

  Amidst the dark shadows under these trees and the faded gray of the cabin we’re walking toward, this ball of rich blue paint is just sitting there, not making a sound. I walk a little closer, but it just sits there, perched and watching like a suspicious stranger.

  Mom is already a few steps ahead of me. I don’t want to make the bird fly away by calling her name. I slow down and then stop.

  The bird’s head moves, so I know it’s real. For a minute I was beginning to wonder.

  Maybe it’s a pet. Maybe it’s been trained to be around humans.

  The bluebird’s chest is a lighter blue while its feathers and head are a vibrant turquoise. The black eyes and beak face me as I reach out my hand, knowing the bird is going to fly away but still mesmerized by being so close to it.

  Then it bites me.

  I howl as the bird keeps tapping away at my hand.

  It’s not like it hurts. It just shocks me.

  “What is it?” Mom calls back at me.

  “Ow. Get out of here. Go on.”

  I bat the bird away, and it flies off. For a second it seemed like it was going to come back at me, but then it disappears.

  It wasn’t going to come back, come on, man.

  I look at my hand. One of my fingers is bleeding.

  I go up to my mom. �
��That bird bit me.”

  “No, it didn’t.”

  “Yeah, it did. That pretty bluebird—just sitting there looking peaceful—it took a nice little chunk out of my finger.”

  “Why’d you reach for it?”

  “Most birds fly away. At least the kind I’m used to.”

  Mom has a smile on her face. “Maybe it doesn’t get many guests.”

  “Thanks for your understanding. Glad it wasn’t a bear.”

  “If it was a bear, I think there wouldn’t be time for understanding. Just running.”

  I’m rubbing my finger, still irritated that something so striking had the nerve to bite me, of all things, when I hear a voice above us.

  “You’re late.”

  Standing on the deck is a gaunt figure dressed in black.

  I see her eyes, and I almost turn around and start running back down the hill.

  “Come on inside,” she says, then she steps through a door and disappears.

  Mom motions her head for me to hurry up.

  That bird was a warning. It was a sign.

  I stare at my index finger and see the speck of blood on it, then wipe it off with my other hand.

  That’s just a sign of what’s to come, Chris.

  30. Iris

  I look at her shriveled bone of a hand marked with spots and bruises, which shakes as it takes the teacup off the table. I’m guessing Iris is old. Like maybe a hundred.

  “This is a hard place to find,” Mom tells her as we sit on a sofa covered with tiny white hairs that belong to either a dog or a cat.

  “Not if you’re looking in the right spot,” Iris says in a raspy but dignified voice.

  She’s got an accent. A proper accent, almost British or something like that. Or maybe it’s just that I think anybody who talks proper sounds British. She’s sure not from around here.

  Even her outfit makes her look … different. She’s wearing a black turtleneck and black pants. Perfectly matched and fitted, strange almost for someone so old to be so fashionable.

  She didn’t offer us anything to drink and barely even suggested we sit down. I can already tell that I don’t want to work for her. The only difference between her and a crabby old man is her gender.

  “I don’t suppose you were told the job description? Most of the time that’s what scares the children away.”

  Children?

  “I was just told that this would be a good job for someone who needed work,” Mom says as she shifts on the couch. “Chris is willing to do pretty much anything.”

  “Chris, is it?”

  I nod.

  “I’m Tara Buck—Tara,” Mom says.

  She still isn’t used to using her maiden name of Kinner. I still like the sound of Buckley myself even if I don’t like who it belongs to.

  “It’s good that Chris is willing to do, as you say, ‘pretty much anything.’ Because every day and every week there is something new to do at the inn.”

  “How long have you run this?”

  “My dear,” Iris says to my mom, as if she’s a child too—maybe we’re all children compared to her—“the inn keeps me, not vice versa.”

  The room we’re in is modest and orderly, nothing too strange or weird. Everything is very woodsy in terms of colors and decorations and feel. A painting above the fireplace sums up this room and probably this inn—a picture of a tiny log cabin perched at the edge of a very high cliff.

  That’s this place, dummy. Someone drew this from far away, as if they’re taking a bird’s-eye view of it.

  The woods must hide how high up we are. Which is a good thing because I don’t particularly love heights.

  “When are you available, Chris?”

  “Well, I’m not sure—I can’t drive—so I mean, it’s up to my mom.”

  “When would you like him, Miss …?”

  “It’s Iris. And does he finish sentences, or does he have a speech impediment?”

  “I finish sentences,” I say.

  “Good. Just wanted to know what to expect.”

  “When will you need him, Iris?” Mom asks again.

  Iris brings the teacup to her mouth and takes a long time to sip it. Then she sets it back down and looks at us. Her hazel eyes are a bit unsettling in their steady stare, as solid as super glue.

  “This Saturday, to start. Eight in the morning will do.”

  “That’s fine. And for how long?” Mom asks.

  “As long as it takes.”

  I wonder if I get a say in any of this.

  “And what will he be doing?”

  “Tara, you must understand. This inn is a special place for special people. It’s hard to get to for a reason. It is a place to rest. A place to hide. We have unique guests here who sometimes want to be left alone and sometimes need tending to. My job is to do whatever is required of me. And I need someone to do what is required of him.”

  I glance at my mom to see if she is as confused as I am.

  Thanks, Mom. Great job choice. It’s going to be nice when Iris “requires” my left thumb for her creepy experiments in her dungeon.

  “Yes, I understand—we understand. It’s just—any ideas to share so Chris knows what to bring or what your expectations are?”

  “Chris already looks strong and fit. That’s one thing. He seems to do a good job keeping quiet, which is another thing. Chris?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you keep secrets?”

  I want to laugh. This whole town is built on secrets. I’m carrying a backpack of them myself.

  Yeah, I can keep freaking secrets.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “What does that mean?” Mom asks.

  “As I said, we have unique guests who stay here, Tara. And discretion is wise when it comes to them.”

  Mom sits on the edge of the seat and shakes her head. “When you say ‘unique,’ what do you mean?”

  “You don’t have to worry.”

  “Chris is respectful, if that’s what you’re going for.”

  “Respect and caution are two different animals,” Iris says. “They’re both wise for a place like this.”

  “I can keep my mouth shut, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Iris seems surprised by my sudden answer. Yet I see a slight smile on her face.

  And for some weird reason, I think of another smile. Another slight smile that popped up surprisingly. The first time I saw Jocelyn smile.

  “I don’t want to have to worry about my son being around strangers,” Mom says.

  “There is no need to worry. Chris will be safe and sound in this place. Nobody will harm him here.”

  I think of the bluebird and want to beg to disagree, but this time I keep my mouth shut.

  “But Chris cannot bring guests to the inn. That is unequivocally forbidden. Is that understood?”

  I nod. I’m doubting that Newt’s going to want to come up and stay the night at this place anyway.

  “Chris is a hard worker,” Mom says.

  “Then he will be able to earn the money. For Saturdays, I pay two hundred dollars.”

  What?

  “Two hundred, for—is that for the day?” Mom sounds as shocked as I am.

  Iris just nods, not even bothering to watch our expressions.

  Judging by this place, where everything seems old and outdated, I can’t see Iris having a lot of money.

  Two hundred bucks for a day? Can I start now?

  “We’ll see how this first Saturday goes and proceed from there. How does that sound?”

  “Great,” I say.

  Iris smiles again. Maybe she likes my outspoken nature. She gives me this look, and for a second I think I’ve got her wrong. She’s not a crabby old woman. She’s just—

  Careful?

  My mom thanks her, and then Iris stands as if she’s got other things to do than chitchat the day away. That’s another difference between Iris and other old people, especially around here. Most of them have plenty of time to burn.
Iris acts like she’s got other duties to attend to.

  I look down a hallway and wonder if anybody else is staying in the house. If someone “unique” is back there.

  When we get outside, we hear rain falling above us onto the covering of trees. Even though it’s winter, the trees are still dense enough to cover us.

  “When did it start raining?” Mom asks. “The sky was clear when we came up here.”

  “This mountain never ceases to surprise me,” Iris says. “The longer I’m up here the more accustomed I am to seeing anything.”

  “Do you go into town much?”

  Iris merely shakes her head. Maybe that’s what she needs me for, though she knows I don’t have a license.

  “I look forward to seeing you next Saturday, Chris. Be safe.”

  As we walk to the car, I scan the area and find it—the bluebird, surely the same one that bit me, perched on the edge of a limb not far from our car.

  I watch it carefully before getting into the vehicle.

  I think of Iris’s last words to me.

  Be safe.

  I wonder exactly how she expects me to do that, and if she has any clue about the mess that’s waiting for me off this mountaintop.

  31. Below

  There’s gotta be a way to get to it, if something’s really there.

  I’m searching the cabin, not that there’s much to search. Mom is working tonight, and I have no big dates or parties to go to.

  I plan to see once and for all if this house has a basement.

  My hunt begins in the back of the cabin, in the laundry room. There’s an old washer and dryer back here, probably installed when this house was built thirty-something years ago. I check them out, look behind them, see the mounds of dust and cobwebs, think it might be nice to clean those one day just for our health and well-being. There’s a tube going out of the wall, but that’s nothing unusual. I examine all parts of the wall and the floor. Not much to examine except faded paint and cracked tile and dirt and grime.

  There’s a small closet that I’ve never really noticed by the back door. A half closet for coats. Maybe this is an elevator.

  And maybe Batman’s going to come out and show you his hidden lair right under your house.

  There are a few coats in here. A pretty cool hunting coat, another hip-looking denim jacket. I’m guessing these weren’t installed with the washer and the dryer. Again I check out the walls and the floor. No type of door or opening or anything unusual. Just some dirty boots on the bottom of the floor.