by James Hunt
“And look at this!” The second guard picked up the gold that Kara had carved out, then rattled it in his fist like a pair of dice. “Trying to score some quick cash?” He laughed. “Hey, Doug, catch.”
Doug snatched the rock from the air, then held it close to Kara’s face. “Naughty, naughty girl.”
Kara smiled after each guard had touched the precious metal. “The cost of gold is high these days.”
“Save it, lady,” the second guard said. “We don’t get paid enough to deal with your—”
A crash of rocks echoed from the mine, and both guards turned their flashlights toward it.
The second guard turned back to Kara, blinding her once more with his light. “How many people are with you?”
Kara remained silent.
Another crash of rocks, this one closer, more violent than before. Doug passed Kara to his partner and drew a firearm from his holster. “Come out slowly with your hands in the air!” The guard kept both his pistol and flashlight aimed into the mine.
The second guard tightened his grip on Kara’s arm. “Tell your friends to stop fooling around!”
Doug stood on the precipice of the mine’s entrance, aiming his weapon and flashlight through the gap that Kara had made in the plywood. “You are trespassing on private property, and we have the authority to use deadly force! Now come out with your hands on your head, slowly!”
Kara tensed, waiting for the inevitable.
“I said come out with your hands—GAH!”
The guard was yanked inside so quickly that his body buckled in half as he disappeared into the mine.
“Doug!” On instinct, the second guard released Kara and charged towards the mine, drawing his pistol. He took a breath, stopping at the mine’s entrance as he reached for his radio. “This is unit three.” He crossed the threshold, his voice quivering as he disappeared into the mine. “I need backup to my location immediately—AHHHH!”
Kara wasn’t sure if the people on the other end of the radio heard the scream, but she didn’t stick around to find out. She snatched her bag off the ground and stuffed the rock samples back inside.
When she saw the piece of gold in the sand, she hesitated.
After a moment, Kara walked to the mine and threw the gold back into its depths. She had what she needed. And she dared not take more than that.
27
Bookshelves lined the walls, stretching from floor to ceiling. Tomes were crammed into every available inch, their spines sporting titles that Amy Holloway had never read. A small water fountain sat in the corner, the water bubbling from its depths meant to soothe the patients who sat in the worn leather chair.
Dr. Lawrence jotted down notes, her face framed with long brown hair that greyed at the tips. She sat across from Amy, her stature non-threatening as she adjusted her glasses that slid to the bridge of her nose. “And how have things been at home this past week?”
Amy fiddled with her hands, squeezing her fingers, still uncomfortable after ten weeks of sessions. “Better.” She nodded, her motions overzealous. “Still having some trouble with Liz, but she got her cast taken off last week, so she’s been in a good mood because of that.”
“And Maisie?” Dr. Lawrence asked.
Amy smiled. “We’re good. Real good.” Her youngest daughter was the only member of her family that hadn’t treated her any different since the accident.
“And Terry?” Dr. Lawrence asked, still scribbling.
Amy’s smile faded. She glanced down at her wedding ring, rubbing the diamond. She cleared her throat. “We’re talking more.”
Dr. Lawrence set her pen down and crossed her legs, leaning forward. “After what you and your family went through, communication is key to mending relationships. It’s the only way to rebuild the trust that was broken.”
Amy winced. She hated coming here. She hated the constant reminder of what happened. But she only nodded, knowing that if her penance was to repeatedly relive her sin, then she would.
“How are your connections going?” Dr. Lawrence asked.
“Good,” Amy answered.
The ‘connections’ were weekly assignments that Dr. Lawrence had given Amy since she started her therapy. Every week, with each member of her family, she would connect to her family through small gestures. Making breakfast, listening to their day, all of them building up into bigger connections like talking about the accident, the end goal leading her toward forgiveness.
“And how have you been feeling this past week?” the doctor asked, examining Amy’s body language.
“I still feel guilty.” Amy focused on a section of the geometrical pattern of the rug between her and Dr. Lawrence. “Ashamed.” She fidgeted. “I relive it every day. I remember the fear, the anger, the cold, the… whispers.” Her skin broke out in goosebumps, and she hugged herself.
“And you still haven’t heard any voices since that day?” Dr. Lawrence asked, no longer writing notes, her full attention on Amy.
“No,” Amy said. “And, if I’m being honest, a part of me wishes they would come back, so I could have a chance at redemption to prove that it doesn’t control me.”
Dr. Lawrence was quiet for a moment, and then removed her glasses and placed them on top of the yellow notepad in her lap. “Amy, what you’re feeling is a very natural urge to correct your mistakes. But you can’t change the past. The only thing that you can control—”
“Is what I do now,” Amy said.
Both women smiled, and Dr. Lawrence uncrossed her legs and shifted in her seat. “The fact that you can openly talk about those fears, about that chance of redemption while still acknowledging the truth of your psychological breakdown, it shows real growth. You should be very proud of that.”
“Thank you,” Amy said.
Dr. Lawrence leaned forward. “And what about the dreams? Are you still having them?”
Amy nodded.
“Any changes to the dream?”
“No, still the same.”
“When was the last time you had the dream?”
“Last night.”
“Describe it to me.”
Amy shrugged, growing tired of the ritual from each session. Ever since she had told her therapist about the reoccurring dream, she was forced to repeat her description at every session, even though Amy assured Dr. Lawrence that it never changed.
“I’m in a very dark place.” Amy shut her eyes, per tradition whenever she described the dream. “It’s cold, and I don’t know where I am. It’s quiet for a long time, and then I hear a voice. A man’s voice. The same voice that I heard on the day of the accident. I can’t understand what it’s saying, but it makes me feel afraid. And my heart pounds so hard that it feels like it will explode out of my chest. And then, I see a figure take shape in the darkness. It’s a man. I think it’s the same man that was speaking to me before, but I can’t be sure because he stays quiet. He keeps his distance, but I can tell he’s dressed in old clothes, and he has a wide brim hat that covers most of his face, which he keeps tilted down. And he just stands there and smiles, and I can see a single gold tooth.” Amy rocked forward and opened her eyes. “And then I wake up.”
Still leaned forward, Dr. Lawrence scribbled furiously onto her notepad. Amy was convinced that the doctor enjoyed reliving the dreams more than she did. “Okay. Very good.”
The last few minutes in the session were used to cover housekeeping items. How are the medications treating you? Do you need a new prescription? How are you sleeping?
Amy replied with her normal responses. Fine. No. Okay.
A soft melody played through the speaker on Dr. Lawrence’s desk, signaling the end of their hour. The pair of women stood and shook hands.
“Very good session, Amy,” Dr. Lawrence said, walking her to the door. “I look forward to seeing you next week and hearing all about the trip.”
“Thank you.” Amy smiled and then passed through the private waiting area, then slipped out into the hallway of the office bui
lding.
On her walk to the elevator, Amy fished her phone out of her purse and turned it on. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. It was like that every time she finished with a therapy session and Terry picked her up.
But today’s nerves were amplified by their trip. It would be the first time the family had left Boulder since the accident. And because it was a work trip for Terry, it was also the first time that Amy would have a chance to be alone with the girls.
Amy had tried to convince Terry to let her watch the girls at home, but neither he nor Dr. Lawrence would sign off on it.
And while Terry’s lack of confidence stung, after three months of spending all her time between home, therapy, and the hospital, Amy was dying for a change in scenery. And for a chance to be alone with her girls.
28
The minivan rumbled along the highway, the pavement cracked and blistered from the relentless desert heat. Inside, the van’s A/C was set to high, but the unit struggled to keep the Holloway family cool.
The world here was very different than their home in Boulder. Scenic mountain ridges had been replaced with flat land that stretched toward the horizon. Sand, rocks, and dust had been substituted for lush greenery. Decay over growth. Death over life.
Amy was leaned back in the front passenger seat, eyes half-closed behind her sunglasses, watching a wake of buzzards lazily circle a patch of cloudless sky over the barren desert, waiting for their chance to pick at whatever carcass lay rotting down below. She grimaced from a headache that had plagued her for the past few hours and massaged her right temple.
“Are you all right?” Terry asked, both hands gripped on the wheel at two and ten.
Amy reached for a bottle of water and sported a smile before she turned toward her husband, doing her best not to tire of the question that her family had repeatedly beat her over the head with. “I’m fine.” She sipped the water, but her headache refused to dull.
The alarm on her phone chimed, and she reached for it quickly, hating the reminder it gave her three times a day.
She reached into her bag on the floorboard between her feet to grab her pills, pushing tissues and make-up aside, but she couldn’t find them. “Shit.”
“That’s a bad word, Mommy,” Maisie said, her eyes glued to the screen of her tablet in the van’s middle row of seats.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Amy patted her shorts, hoping that she’d put them in her pocket before they left the hotel this morning.
“What’s wrong?” Terry asked.
“Nothing,” Amy answered quickly. “I just… I think I left my pills at the hotel.”
Terry arched his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
“Unless they’re in my luggage, but I wouldn’t have put it there.”
Terry exhaled and fidgeted anxiously, checking his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. “We don’t have time to turn around. I’ll call the hotel and see if they can ship the pills to us. Maybe they have a courier service or something.” He checked his watch again. “I’ll have to leave the moment we get checked in. Think you can handle you and the kids settling in by yourself?”
The question was innocent, and Amy had learned to deal with her family’s passive aggressive concern toward her condition. But her patience was growing thin.
“You know I can’t prove to you that I’m better if you never give me the chance,” Amy said.
Terry deflated. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”
“Ugh!” The cry was the first sign of life in the very back seat of the van where only a pair of freshly-shaven, tanned legs capped with feet in yellow socks pressed against the window were visible.
Liz dropped her feet onto the seat, pushing herself to an upright position for the first time since she’d gotten in the car this morning. “My phone died.”
“May it rest in peace,” Terry said.
Maisie giggled, but Liz mocked her sister’s amusement with snarky laughter.
“I need a charger.” Liz extended her arm past Maisie, thrusting her palm in the space between her parents’ seats.
“It’s in your bag,” Terry said.
“But my bag is on the roof,” Liz said.
“We’re almost there,” Terry said.
“But I was talking to Chase!”
“Watch your tone,” Amy said, turning around and staring her daughter down. “You two don’t have to talk every waking minute of the day.”
“It’s not my fault that I actually enjoy talking to the person I’m with.”
“That’s enough!” Terry accompanied the harsh tone with a glare toward his daughter through the rearview mirror.
Liz slunk back down and crossed her arms. “I didn’t even want to go on this stupid trip.”
“Mom?” Maisie asked sheepishly.
Shaking off Liz’s comment, Amy turned around and smiled when she saw Maisie’s big green eyes. “What is it, sweetie?”
“Can we go on the mine tour when we get to Ghost Town?” Maisie asked.
Liz snorted. “Ghost Town. What a stupid name.”
Maisie flipped the tablet around to show her mother the screen. “It has some really cool history.”
But what her daughter found cool, Amy found disturbing. “Maisie, I don’t think you should be looking at this stuff, sweetheart.” The article that her six-year-old daughter was reading was titled Famous Mine Deaths of the Gold Rush Era and was littered with pictures of corpses. “This will give you nightmares.”
The talk of gore brought Liz up from her seat, and she grimaced when she saw the screen. “Ew, that’s disgusting.” She turned to Maisie. “You’re such a freak.”
“I am not a freak,” Maisie said, growing defensive.
“Then why are you looking at pictures of dead people?”
“It’s history!”
“Girls!” Amy shouted, breaking up the argument, and then lowered her voice. “Elizabeth, that’s enough.” Liz backed off, and Amy turned to Maisie. “This might be too intense for you.”
“Mom, I’ll be fine, I promise. And it’s free!” Maisie clasped her hands together, puffed out her lips, and batted those long eyelashes. “Pleeeeeease?”
Amy glanced at Terry, who nodded his consent. She sighed. “All right.”
“Yes!” Maisie fist pumped both arms and wiggled with delight as Amy handed the tablet back to her. She smiled, exposing the missing front teeth in the top row of her mouth, which caused a lisp in her speech.
“Just take it easy on those articles, okay?” Amy asked.
“Okay.” Maisie kept her eyes glued on the screen, her fingers working the touch pad deftly.
The farther they drove, the more frequent the old road signs for Ghost Town became, each of them advertising a hokey message.
Ghost Town, where you check-in, but you don’t check out.
Ghost Town, the scariest place on Earth.
Ready for a thrill? Stop by Ghost Town to see if you can survive the night!
Each message was accompanied by terrified visitors, their reactions overdramatic. But each of the signs were faded, the paint peeling off and completely gone in some places, which added an unintended production value.
“Finally,” Terry said, turning off the highway and heading toward Ghost Town.
Amy wasn’t sure what to expect when they arrived. She had never been to many tourist traps, and the only reason she was heading to this one was because Terry’s new employer was refurbishing the old mine that resided on Ghost Town’s property. And seeing as how the nearest accommodations to Terry’s new worksite were fifty miles away, they decided to rest their heads in the dying attraction.
But while her imagination ran wild with possibilities of what they’d encounter, she didn’t expect the large cluster of protestors that marched just outside Ghost Town’s property line.
Terry slowed the van and leaned forward. “What the hell?”
“Cool,” Maisie said, her face pressed against the window.
Protesters marc
hed in an organized circle, signs raised high in the air, everyone chanting the same phrase in unison. “Our land! Our lives! Our land! Our lives!”
Amy frowned and then looked to Terry. “Did you know about this?”
“No,” Terry answered.
The group kicked up dust that swirled around them like a dirty veil. Unable to peel her eyes away from the demonstration, Amy hugged herself tighter as they passed beneath the arched and faded Ghost Town entrance sign.
The paved road led them around the back of the buildings to a parking lot, and Terry helped grab the bags off the roof, handing them off to the rest of the family, and then headed toward the reconstructed mid-nineteenth century gold rush town.
A single road cut down the middle of the town, wooden buildings crammed together on either side of it, each bearing a sign for whatever goods and services were sold and offered. Pharmacy. Grocery. Saloon. Hotel.
And while the buildings were worn with time as would befit a town constructed two hundred years ago, Amy couldn’t tell if the decay was by design or from time. Since they’d be staying here for the next few days, she hoped it was the former.
Horses adorned with character actors trotted lazily down the dirt road, posing for pictures with any visitor that flagged them down. Each of them spoke in an old timey accent, and judging from the quick conversations that Amy heard, the characters were knowledgeable in the subjects their garments represented.
The sheriff spoke of the laws of the town. A milkmaid boasted about a sale at the grocery. The local drunk sloshed about, spewing nonsense. Each of them committed to the roles they played. Maisie loved it. Liz rolled her eyes after every interaction.
The road that ran through the center of the town dead-ended at the mine, which had a line of visitors waiting to venture into its depths.
The mouth of the attraction’s entrance was a cave, the earth built up around it. Anything beyond the mine’s threshold was devoured in darkness, and as Amy stared at the darkness, she slowed her pace.
A tickle on the back of her neck caused her hairs to stick straight up. And despite the heat, goosebumps spread across her arms and legs.