Burden Falls

by Kat Ellis

  For a moment, I think they’ve posted a video of the pavilion after all. The building is almost identical, except for those odd little windows.

  But I know what this is. It’s not a pavilion, it’s a dovecote. I remember Grandpa telling me there used to be one at the manor—a twin to the pavilion—but it was removed when they built the distillery at the northern edge of our land.

  “Seriously, where do they come up with this garbage?” I mutter, but then my smirk drops as I realize there won’t be any more Haunted Heartland episodes. Not unless Dominic and the others decide to keep making it without Freya, and I just can’t see that, even if Dominic does want to continue researching Sadie. Despite my feelings about the Millers’ crew generally, the four of them always seem so tight. Seemed.

  “We’re gonna have to turn on the flashlights as we go in because it’s dark and really creepy in there.” Freya has dropped the fake smile in favor of wide-eyed pensiveness.

  The camera follows Freya, Mateo, and Casper as they wander around the inside of the dovecote. Streaks of bird crap paint the walls. Mateo crouches and beckons the camera closer.

  “Did you find something?” Freya asks breathlessly.

  “I found . . . this.” He whirls around and suddenly a terrifying, howling face fills the screen. The camera jumps as Dominic steps away, and I see that Mateo is holding a fat toad in his hands.

  “Dick,” I mutter, my heart still pounding.

  Mateo laughs his ass off as he squeezes the creature again, and it lets out another shrill howl.

  “Put that poor thing back where you found it,” Freya says, but she’s laughing too. Dominic pans over to his sister.

  “Cas,” Freya whispers, “do you feel anything yet?”

  “It’s getting cooler . . . There’s definitely a presence here.”

  “Hacksaw Henry murdered six women and girls between 1988 and 1992,” Freya’s voice whispers through my phone speakers. I find myself leaning in, in spite of myself. “He dismembered their bodies, dumping the pieces in trash cans throughout multiple neighborhoods of southern Indiana. Henry left the final body in Heron Gate park with the hacksaw he’d used on all his victims—a message, many say, that he was done killing.”

  The camera is following Freya as she walks another circuit when a shadow flits past one of the windows. There and gone, only a brief flash.

  Neither Freya nor any of the guys seems to notice. The camera moves on, tracking Freya’s tour of the perimeter. I guess it was just a bird.

  Then it happens again. A shadow crosses the window behind her, a little slower this time, so I can just make out the blurry shape of a face before it disappears from view.

  What the hell?

  My pulse quickens, even though I know it’s probably just someone the Miller twins strong-armed into making the video with them. I’d probably recognize the person from school if I looked closely enough.

  I pause the video and take it back to a few seconds before the first shadow passed behind Freya. When I play it this time, I don’t see it. I let it run at quarter speed up to the point where I got the clearer view of the face at the window. There’s nobody there. I play it again twice more, just to be sure. I pause the video and lean in to study it.

  There’s no sign of the shape I saw at the window. But, as I stare at it, the shadows begin to move at Freya’s back. Just a deepening darkness at first, like a void folding inward. But it’s growing. Stretching.

  It towers over Freya now. It’s a person, definitely. Or the shape of a person . . .

  Freya just stands there, smiling out from the screen.

  First you see her, then you—

  Someone clears their throat in front of me, and I drop my phone with a squeak. Madoc Miller stands at the counter in his winter overcoat and leather gloves. He scowls from beneath his heavy eyebrows.

  “What are you doing here?” I snap. Usually, if he catches sight of me at the counter, Madoc keeps on driving. He doesn’t want to see me any more than I want to see him. The arrangement suits us both. And now the fucker has broken it.

  “Fifty on number four,” he says gruffly. His voice is nothing like Dominic’s, I realize. Dominic’s is deep and smooth—quite a nice voice, if you like that kind of thing. But Madoc sounds like he’s smoked forty a day since kindergarten and gargled broken glass in between. I think this is actually the first time he’s spoken to me directly since the day he drove his Hummer into my parents’ car.

  And now his daughter’s dead.

  “Ava?”

  “What?”

  “Fifty bucks. Pump four.” Madoc Miller pushes cash across the counter to underline the statement.

  Wordlessly, I ring up the gas sale. He pockets the receipt and I wait for him to leave, but he just stands there. “Was there something else?”

  Madoc purses his lips before speaking, as though choosing his words with great care.

  “You were the one who found my daughter.”

  Not a question. A statement.

  Did he actually come here to accuse me of something?

  “That’s right, I was.”

  “I’m sorry for that,” he says, then turns abruptly and leaves.

  * * *

  * * *

  It’s pretty late when I get home, and I don’t expect to find anyone still up, but Carolyn is leaning against the kitchen counter, holding a mug of tea.

  “Hey, sweetie. Ford came by earlier. I told him you were working—did he call in at the gas station?”

  I grit my teeth. “No. Did he . . . leave anything for me?”

  I can tell by Carolyn’s confused look that he didn’t. Why hasn’t he given my mom’s necklace back yet?

  An ugly thought creeps into my head: What if he can’t give it back? What if he actually gave it to Freya, and just doesn’t have the guts to tell me?

  Damn it. Damn him. Tomorrow’s Saturday—I’ll go over to Ford’s before work and get it back myself.

  “Busy shift?” Carolyn asks, probably thinking that’s the reason behind my suddenly sour mood.

  “Nah. Weird one, though. Madoc Miller came in.” I take a sip from my coffee, trying to appear nonchalant, but Carolyn stiffens.

  “What did he say? Was he rude to you? If he said anything—”

  “No, it was fine. I mean, odd, but fine. He just said he was sorry I was the one who found Freya.”

  Carolyn relaxes a little, but she’s still frowning. “That’s hardly the thing he should be apologizing for.”

  “Yeah.”

  He never apologized for killing my parents—not at the inquest, or in private. Not that any “sorry” would’ve made a damn bit of difference. Mom and Dad would still be dead. I’d still hate him.

  “There was something else, though . . .”

  Carolyn puts down her tea, listening.

  “I was watching a Haunted Heartland video on my phone, and I thought I saw something in the background, but when I played it back, it wasn’t there. Weird, right?” I force a laugh.

  “What kind of ‘something’ did you think you saw?” Carolyn asks.

  “Like a person, maybe? Just someone in the background.”

  “So, something they staged to creep people out?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think this was someone who was supposed to be there.”

  “I see.” Carolyn nods slowly. “Are you thinking it might’ve been something else? Something like Sadie?”

  “No, I . . .” But isn’t that who my instincts told me it was? That video was recorded a couple weeks ago.

  First you see her, then you die.

  Like my dad did.

  My pulse thuds loudly in my head, making it hard to think. Or maybe I just don’t want to.

  Was it actually true, what Dad said right before he died? That he did see Sadie in the w
oods—and it wasn’t just a symptom of his seizure? He always told me Sadie was a myth. Always laughed whenever Mom warned him not to talk that way or Sadie might come early just to set you straight. But he believed in the end, didn’t he? Even though I’ve been denying it ever since, I think a part of me started to believe then too.

  But why would she appear in Freya’s video? As a warning that Freya was about to die?

  But Freya didn’t actually see Sadie in the video. I did.

  “Ava, I’m going to shoot straight here, okay?” Carolyn says, cutting through my dawning horror. “You found a girl’s body with the eyes mutilated, and on the anniversary of your parents’ deaths. Naturally, you haven’t been sleeping too well.” She smooths a hand over my cheek and looks me dead in the eyes. “We’re going to have to commit you, sweetie.”

  I laugh in surprise. “What?”

  She nods faux-sadly. “Yup. Ty’s filing the papers right now.”

  “Shut up,” I say, still laughing.

  Finally, she cracks a grin, but it soon softens. “Ava, after all you’ve been through, I’d be shocked if you weren’t a little strung out. Don’t give yourself such a hard time, okay? Maybe it was too soon for you to stop seeing Dr. Ehrenfeld . . .”

  “No, it was time,” I say quickly. It’s not that I thought the sessions weren’t helping me, but I felt guilty asking Carolyn and Uncle Ty to keep paying for therapy when I knew money was so tight.

  “As long as you’re sure.” She taps a fingernail on my coffee lid. “But maybe stick to decaf with these, yeah? I got some more for you.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Carolyn gives my arm a squeeze and disappears into the living room. I switch out my empty coffee for a glass of water and head to my room. As I’m crossing to the desk, I look at the round window above it and see a pale face staring in at me.

  I drop the glass of water. It shatters at my feet, shards spraying everywhere.

  But the face is just my reflection. Just me.

  There’s nobody out there.

  TWENTY-TWO

  It’s early, and still dark out, but when I try to start Bessie, I find she’s having one of her temperamental days. I’m wide-awake now, though, so I put on my boots and decide to brave the walk to Ford’s instead. There’s only a couple of inches of snow.

  Grabbing a coffee and an apple for breakfast, I head out.

  The path to the river stretches away crisp and white, unspoiled yet by either humans or animals. It feels wrong to stomp through it in my boots, but also kind of satisfying.

  The river itself is a swirling white sheet with darker patches where the thaw is trying to break through. We’re inching into spring now. Like my mom used to say, this is the last snap of winter’s fingers.

  Frost gives way to frozen dirt on the path as the trees press in close to the river. The sun must be coming up by now, but the clouds overhead are so thick, it could almost still be night. I hear the bells murmuring from upriver. It isn’t familiar and comforting like it usually is. Now it’s eerie, playing on my nerves like a current in the air.

  By the time I see the scarred tree marking Copper Bell Dam, my feet are two blocks of ice. Still, I pause to run my fingers over the evil eye carved into the tree. It’s a tradition. But it stirs something uneasy in me, remembering the one etched into my locker door. It might’ve been some rando at school who did it after hearing I was the one who found Freya, but it felt personal. Now all the evil eyes seem like they’re turned toward me. Watching.

  As soon as I catch sight of the dam, something feels off. My head spins like I’ve just stepped off a carousel. I lean back against the scarred tree and close my eyes, waiting for the weird head rush to pass.

  Carolyn’s right—I really should switch to decaf.

  Cautiously, I open my eyes. Everything has stopped swimming. I’m actually relieved for a second before I realize everything hasn’t just stopped swimming—it’s stopped altogether.

  The bells are silent. My breath comes heavy, but doesn’t mist the air in front of me. Even the river’s murmur beneath the ice has died.

  I rub my eyes, then my temples, hoping I can somehow massage reality back into its proper place. Trying to breathe evenly, I push away from the tree. But across the feathered white of the river I see someone standing on the far bank. Her head is bowed, as though she’s looking for something in the river. Lank black hair hangs forward to hide her face.

  Oh God. Oh Jesus.

  It’s her.

  “Sadie.” I don’t mean to say it out loud, but the whisper breaks whatever spell is holding time prisoner. A bird squawks and swoops low over the path before winging up toward the slate-gray sky. The bells chime as though they’ve been struck.

  “First you see her, then you die.”

  I run, the whisper coiling itself deep in my ear. The shapes of the trees against the sky look razor-sharp and vicious, no longer a shaded path but a possible trap. Every footstep, every crunch of frozen ground, seems magnified. Multiplied, because they aren’t just my footsteps. Not just my breaths. She’s tracking me, I know it, but I can’t bear to look back across the river. Can’t turn and stare into those empty, hungry eye sockets, and see my own death there.

  I duck to avoid a low branch, but it still captures a strand of my hair. It’s as though she’s using it all to reach for me—the river, the path, the trees—bearing down to pin me to the riverbank.

  Something claws at my cheek, and I scream.

  Just a twig. Only a damn twig.

  I keep going. Breathing hard, I keep sprinting on until the path veers away from the water toward River Road. I only stop once I’m in sight of the pavement, with its passing cars and thrum of life. A kid on a bike curses and swerves at my sudden appearance, and I’ve never been happier to get cussed out by a middle-schooler.

  With shaking hands, I pull out my phone and call the one person I can count on to be real with me, no matter what.

  Carla answers on the second ring. “Don’t tell me—you’ve found another corpse?”

  “Carla, stop being an asshole for a second and tell me I’m not losing my mind.”

  “Okay,” she says slowly. “I’m going to need some context before I commit to that.”

  “I just saw Dead-Eyed Sadie at Copper Bell Dam.”

  There’s a beat of silence. “More information, please.”

  “I was walking and my head started spinning, so I closed my eyes. When I opened them, she was standing right across the river from me.”

  “Okay. She was across the river—that’s what, fifty feet? Are you sure it wasn’t just someone out walking their dog?”

  “There was no dog!” I snap.

  “Well, what was she wearing?”

  “I . . .” I try to think, to picture it. “Something dark? I couldn’t really make it out with the trees behind her.”

  “But you saw her face?”

  “Not exactly. She was sort of leaning forward, looking down at the river.”

  There’s a longer silence now, and I hear someone in the background asking who’s on the phone. Probably Daphne. Carla’s dads are really cool about the two of them—more so than Daphne’s parents, who aren’t openly assholey about Daphne being gay, but it’s taking them a minute to get used to the idea.

  “Okay,” Carla says, “assuming you haven’t been smoking something or huffing aerosols, this is my official verdict: You just saw some rando out for an early walk, and freaked out. I’m putting that down to recent events, not inconsiderable stress, and the fact it’s fucking early. You’re fine.”

  Just hearing Carla say that in her no-shit, confident tone actually makes me believe her. Almost.

  “All right?” When I don’t answer, she says it again. “All right?”

  “Just to make absolutely sure: Despite the fact that anyone in the Thorn family who sees
Sadie is supposed to die, I’m not going to die, right?”

  “Of course you are,” she says matter-of-factly. “But probably not for a really long time, and definitely not because you had a ghostly visitation, Ebenezer.”

  “What?”

  “Ebenezer Scrooge from A Christmas Carol . . . Oh, never mind. My point is, you’re fine. There’s nothing you need to worry about, okay?”

  I exhale deeply. “Yes. Thank you, Dr. Carla. Sorry for waking you.”

  “Whatever.” Carla mutters something like try reading a fucking book sometime, then hangs up.

  * * *

  * * *

  I knock at Ford’s door, forgetting for a moment that his mom might’ve been on a late shift at the care home. But she’s bright-eyed and dressed when she opens the door, ushering me inside as always.

  “Are you okay, sweetie? You look a little under the weather.”

  Truthfully, I’m a sweaty mess. My legs are shaky from running most of the way here, and my skin is doing this weird tingling thing that makes me want to turn it inside out. But I just smile weakly and tell her, “I’m fine. Thanks, Ms. Sutter. Is Ford home?”

  “He’s still in bed.” She rolls her eyes. “You know what he’s like in the mornings. But I’ll go wake him and we can have some coffee while he de-zombifies himself, if you like?”

  I try to muster a genuine smile for Ms. Sutter. No matter how pissed I am with Ford, she’s always been so kind to me—especially right after my parents died. I spent so much time here then, it was almost like she adopted me.

  Now things have gone sour between me and Ford, and I might never set foot inside this house again. Man, I’m so pissed at him right now, I want to shake him.

  “Actually, Ms. Sutter, would it be okay if I just go up?”

  “If you can handle the smell of feet and morning breath, you go ahead.” She chuckles to herself on her way to the kitchen. I head upstairs.