Not only was the screen closed, the window was locked and the curtains were drawn!
Oh no! Mama must have come and checked on me and saw that the window was opened! Did she know I was gone?
I realized there was no way she knew I was out of my bed because if she did, I’m pretty sure I’d be facing a firing squad of police officers right now. She wouldn’t have even gone to look for me before she called the cops. How could she go look for me? It would require her to leave the house.
And then I considered, oh my God, what if she went to look for me? I would be in a crapload of trouble if my mama had left the house.
I slumped against the trunk, sweaty from my exertions. I was in quite the pickle. My mama could be A, asleep in her bed, oblivious to the fact that her only child was wandering around in the woods and marshes with a boy until the wee morning hours and was now sitting in a tree, locked out of the house. Or, B, she could be wandering over the trail to the marshes and woods herself, shaking in her galoshes as she waved a flashlight around nervously searching for her aforementioned only child. And then there was the minute possibility of, C, she was waiting in the dark for me at the front door, madder than a wet hen in a tote sack, ready to scream and yell and punish me the second I walked through the door. But that last one sounded nothing like my mild-mannered mama, so I was going to have to sit and decide whether scenario A or B was more likely.
“What’s the matter?” Carson’s voice broke the silence. Crap! I forgot he was there! How embarrassing!
“It’s locked,” I whispered.
“Well, what are you doing up there? Come down and we’ll find another way for you to get in,” Carson called up to me.
Oh, yeah. . .of course.
Swinging my leg over the branch, I decided to skip the scooting and land on the ground.
“What about the back door?” Carson asked.
I tilted my head and mumbled, “You really don’t know my mama. She’s got the place locked up like Fort Knox at night.”
“Still. . .can’t hurt to try,” Carson said.
I crept over to the back door, on the off chance that Mama had accidentally left it unlocked. I knew that the probability of that was slim to absolutely none, but I tugged at the screen door all the same. Locked.
I glanced at Carson with an “I told you so” look.
“Try the windows,” he suggested.
Sighing, I gazed at the windows. Even though we had no air conditioner downstairs and the windows were open during the day, Mama always closed them at night. Still, I tried them thinking that maybe she had missed a latch or something else unlikely. And, foiled again.
“Locked,” I said. Leaning against the house, I searched the yard, assessing my next move. Carson was doing the same while scratching his head. Was I going to have to throw in the towel and knock on the front door, possibly rousing Mama out of her slumber and giving her a heart attack in the process?
“What about the cellar doors?” Carson asked.
My heart did a happy little flip in my chest. I distinctly remember the day after school let out, I went down the cellar via the house to cool down, and then, came up through the storm doors. I’m pretty certain I never went back in and locked it. Most likely, Mama would have never checked the cellar doors, assuming that they remained locked at all times.
“Yes!” I shouted, a little too loudly. Colt’s ears perked up. I clamped my hand over my mouth, hoping I hadn’t woken up Mama. “I’ll try them,” I whispered while creeping toward the cellar.
Pulling on the doors, I had to bite my lip from letting out a cry of glee as they swung open easily. I turned to Carson. “Thanks. I should be able to get in from here.”
“Okay,” he said as he rose to his feet, tugging Colt’s leash. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
I nodded, butterflies having a field day in my stomach. He wants to see you tomorrow! Tomorrow! I practically sang the words to the song from Annie.
I didn’t say anything more, though. I waved and then carefully stepped into the darkened concrete stairway, cobwebs blocking the path and spiders darting everywhere as I descended into the pitch black hole. I closed the storm doors before going in all the way. Within seconds I was stepping into the cellar. The cellar, sans windows and with a perpetual musty smell to it, was the darkest place one could imagine. It was the stuff that gave birth to nightmares, but right now, I had no time for nightmares.
I felt along the walls, trying not to trip and break a bone in my quest to find the bottom of the steps that led upstairs. The only light in the cellar was a bulb swinging somewhere in the middle with a long chain attached. I had no idea where it was now in the dark. I felt my pocket and realized I had left my cell phone charging. I couldn’t even use that to illuminate the basement. I was stuck in the dark.
I’m never sneaking out again, I’m never sneaking out again, I repeated over and over in my head as I felt along the cold, moist walls that lined the cellar.
“Ouch,” I shouted as my shin hit the bottom step and then, I shoved my fist in my mouth and froze. Please don’t wake up, Mama. I didn’t make it this far to get the third degree now. Hell, if that was the case, I might as well have woken her up when I came home to begin with. Would have saved me some bruises and a head full of cobwebs. And quite possibly a spider in my pajama top.
When I was certain I did not hear my mama’s light footfall on the second-floor staircase, I crept up the basement steps, lifting my foot and lowering it with the speed of a hundred-year-old tortoise. I grasped on to the railing, my hands trembling as I attempted to practically suspend myself in mid-air, slinking up the stairs, avoiding all the creaky steps.
After about a year and half (or so it seemed), I managed to get to the top and paused to catch my breath on the small landing. Leaning my ear against the door, the only sound I could make out was the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the ice tray dumping ice into the bin. The rest of the house was still asleep.
Pleased, I turned the knob and pushed lightly against the door. Disappointment hit me. Locked from the other side, it didn’t budge. My buoyed heart crashed somewhere into my pelvis.
You didn’t figure that Mama would lock the basement door, you ninny?
I wanted to kick myself for my stupidity. Serves you right. You shouldn’t have snuck out of the house. Nothing good ever happens after midnight anyway.
Feeling like I should be banging my head against the wall, I did just that. Lightly, of course. It must have jostled something from the recesses of my brain because just then, I recalled an important fact from the first day we moved into the house. I remember finding a lonely little key on the hook by the door. Since I was so short, I had stacked up books on the top step to reach it (I know—safe, right?). Then, I had sat on the steps to inspect the key, out of the way of my mama, who was flying around the house in a tizzy, unpacking and cleaning things. Not that we had much to unpack, only what we could fit in our beaten up old car. The same stuff we had been driving around with for months. I had been practically glued to Mama’s side for what felt like forever and this was my first taste of freedom.
I had turned that key over and over in my hand, imagining where the door it unlocked was hidden. Could it be a secret passageway in the kitchen that led to my bedroom? Was it to an underground tunnel in the basement that would take me to the outskirts of town if I traveled it? Or could it be a hidden attic door that would reveal treasures of the last centuries to me? I was quite an imaginative kid at nine years old, my best friends being novels or my mama. As much as I loved Mama, even at a young age I knew that books were much more stable.
It turned out the key was for nothing exciting. It opened the cellar door from either side. I made this depressing discovery about four minutes into my search for adventure. I had glumly hung the key back on the hook and had forgotten about it.
But as sad as the discovery had made me that day, it cheered me now. I reached for the key, my skin brushed metal, and I gasped with jo
y as I lifted the key off the hook with my fingertips. Until. . .the key fell away from me and I heard the unmistakable sound of tinkling brass bouncing down the steps. It sounded like it was falling in slow motion, and I was completely powerless to prevent it.
I groaned and leaned my head against the wall in defeat. This is like one of those segments in a movie where everything that could possibly go wrong, does.
Taking a deep breath, I crept back down the steps, this time at a lot faster pace than I had gone up. It had to be getting on two o’clock and I was beat. I couldn’t think of anything except crawling under my sheets in my bedroom—which was probably like an oven right now since Mama had closed the window—and falling fast asleep into dream land.
When I hit the last step, I crouched down on my knees onto the cold and dusty cellar floor. I was so wrought with exhaustion at this point that I considered curling up there until morning. But no—I had to get to my bed before I got caught.
On my hands and knees, I felt around until my fingers brushed against something that felt rough and. . .plastic-y. It was one of the tarps you would put up for picnics and barbecues in case it rained. I briefly wondered what the tarp would be doing laid out here on the floor instead of the corner where it was usually stored (from the previous owner—they didn’t take much), but my mission to get out of this cellar was in the forefront of my mind.
Thinking the key might have bounced underneath, I lifted the edge of the tarp and felt the metal end of what might possibly be the key. Only it seemed to be stuck under something. “Dang it,” I muttered as I reached down to pull it out. I crouched lower on the dirty floor, brushing my hands along the edge of the something underneath the tarp. As I felt the cold and hard texture, recognition registered in my brain almost instantly.
Chin, lips, nose, eyes, high forehead. I was touching the face of a person!
I leaped to my feet and surprisingly, only a small gasp escaped my lips, despite the fact that a scream was brewing, begging to be let free. I stood with my hand frozen in the air, time standing still.
There’s a body underneath this tarp. Holy crap, there’s a body under this tarp!
Although I was bathed in darkness, my other senses were suddenly heightened. I could feel it, smell the decaying flesh. . .hell, I could practically taste it in my mouth. Why hadn’t I smelled it before? It was an overwhelming odor.
My breathing quickened as I rubbed the hand that had touched the stiff on my pants, as if by doing that I could undo the discovery.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” I mumbled while backing up. I tripped over the bottom step, landing flat on my rear end. Sprawled out on the floor, I pushed my body backward with my hands, my legs scrambling to stand. I grabbed the railing to pull myself up and then blindly felt my way to the cement steps. In record time, I ran up and threw the doors open, not caring how many cobwebs or live spiders were crawling in my hair.
My mind was racing almost as fast as my heart as I leaned over onto the grass, dry heaving, and desperately trying to catch my breath. Who was it underneath that tarp? And how did they get here?
TWELVE
“Kennedy?” A voice ripped through the darkness. I whirled around, vomit trickling out of my mouth, to find Carson standing at the gate. What was he doing here?
“Carson!” I croaked. “I thought you left!”
“I wanted to wait until you got to your room.” He pointed to my bedroom window. “I didn’t see the light come on. You couldn’t get in?”
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, praying he hadn’t seen me throw up. “I couldn’t…” I stammered. What was I supposed to say? I couldn’t get in, but hey, I think found a dead body in the basement?
“Kennedy?” Carson stepped closer. “Are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
A high-pitch squeal escaped from my lips, the séance at Lindy’s house fresh in my mind. There had been way too much talk of ghosts this week. And the fact that Lindy’s “ghost” had claimed to be buried in the basement. . .well that sent a shudder through my body that could be classified as a convulsion.
Carson grabbed me by the shoulders, a panicked expression on his face. “What happened in the basement, Kennedy? You have to tell me.”
“I can’t,” I mumbled. Bile was rising in my throat again. Don’t puke on him! Nothing ruins a budding romance like puking on a guy!
How could I tell him? His daddy was a cop! He would tell him and the police would swarm the basement and Mama would have a nervous breakdown. And I had to tell Mama! I suddenly remembered Mama. Oh, she was gonna die of fright.
“What did you see in the basement?” Carson repeated.
Somebody dead. The words sounded absolutely ridiculous in my mind. How could somebody be dead in the basement? Who could it possibly be? And how did they get there? Mama never left the house. How could someone possibly get in the house? Unless Mama. . .oh God, could Mama have killed someone? I definitely can’t let Carson down there if Mama killed someone!
Then I remembered, I had left the doors open last week. What if the body belonged to a bum who had wandered down to our basement after I had left the doors unlocked, covered himself with the tarp, and died down there? This was all my fault.
“I’m going down there if you won’t tell me,” Carson said, stepping down onto the concrete steps.
“No!” I started to protest. Carson halted and turned to look at me. His eyes were full of genuine concern. I had to trust him; it was too late for anything else. He wasn’t going to let this go.
“Wait. Let me show you,” I said as I stepped onto the stairs, my legs shaking like Bambi on a frozen pond. I didn’t want to go back in the basement, but Carson would keep me safe, wouldn’t he?
He followed me into the dank cellar and I immediately smelled the body.
That’s weird. I didn’t smell it when I came into the basement a few minutes ago. Is it because now I’m aware there is a corpse a few feet away and I’m hypersensitive to the smell?
“What’s that mildew-y smell?” Carson asked as Colt tilted his own nose in the air and took a deep sniff.
“That’s what I have to show you,” I whispered as I pulled the door closed and enveloped us in total darkness. “Does your phone have a flashlight app?”
“I don’t have a phone,” Carson replied. “But I have a flashlight,” he said as he dug it out of his pocket. “It’s right…Colt what are you doing?”
I have no idea how Carson could have possibly seen his black dog in the pitch black cellar, but somehow, he knew that Colt was wandering on.
With a click, he illuminated the spot directly in front of us with his flashlight. The dog was sniffing and pawing at the corpse.
“What the hell is that?” Carson asked, his voice going up an octave.
“Shhh!” I hissed as I pointed at the ceiling.
“Sorry,” Carson whispered as he shined his flashlight in the general direction of the tarp. Colt whimpered as he nudged the tarp, revealing a hand. “Is that what I think it is?” Carson asked as we took a tentative step closer.
I nodded. “I think so.”
“Damn it, Colt, get away from there,” Carson chastised in a hushed voice. Then he turned to me, his face lit up by the dim light of his flashlight. “Who is it?”
“I think maybe it’s a bum or something. . .I accidentally left the storm doors open last week. Maybe he wandered in here and died,” I said hopefully.
Carson stared at me. “That’s a little far-fetched, don’t you think?”
I shrugged. “Mama doesn’t let anyone in the house voluntarily. I don’t know who else it could be.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out, right?”
We proceeded to step even closer, peering at the lump under the tarp. My heart was hammering unnaturally in my chest. As if he could read my mind, Carson grabbed my hand and squeezed it tightly. My hand was shaky and sweaty, but Carson didn’t seem to notice. His was just as bad. This was crazy. Both of us were sc
ared out of our minds.
Get a grip on yourself! It’s just a dead body. It can’t hurt you!
Carson took charge then and crouched down by the tarp. I could now see that it was dark green. “You ready?” he asked, looking up at me.
I nodded my head and he slowly peeled back the crinkly material. I stifled a gasp as a man’s arm was revealed (what the heck did I think the hand was attached to?) and then a mid-section and then a leg and another leg and finally, Carson stood and pulled the whole tarp off, revealing a very ashen faced man staring up at the ceiling with his dead eyes. He was dressed in a light colored button down shirt and khaki pants. He wore a wedding ring on his large hands and an enormous gash on his forehead.
Even though I already knew there was a body under this tarp, it didn’t stop my gut reaction of wanting to scream. I balled up my fist and shoved it in my mouth, biting my knuckles as I grabbed onto Carson so that I didn’t collapse on the floor. Yeah, I know it sounds like a typical girlie reaction, but it isn’t every day you discover a dead body in your cellar. Trust me on this one. No matter how prepared you think you are, the shock is like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
Carson let out a long, low whistle as he leaned closer and then proceeded to gag. “Wow, he’s pretty ripe,” he whispered to me.
I nodded my head as I pulled my T-shirt up around my nose. The cellar was only about fifty-something degrees, which I’m sure would slow decomp considerably. But I was no Kay Scarpetta, even though I had read every Patricia Cornwell book from cover to cover.
“It doesn’t look like a bum,” Carson said. “Definitely doesn’t look like any of the bums I’ve seen wandering around.”
“Okay. . .but then, who could it be? And how did they get here without me or Mama noticing?”
Then, I remembered Mama acting weird when she came up from the basement earlier in the day. Was this body down here then? Did Mama see it? Did Mama know? Why wouldn’t she call the police if she saw a dead guy in her basement?
Suddenly, a loud humming noise came from the corner of the basement. Colt whimpered and I squeezed Carson’s hand as we both nearly jumped out of our skin.
The Dead of Summer Page 11