Dead Willow

by Joe Sharp

  “What happened to him?”

  Maddie turned to the next page.

  Jess’ eyes got round. Even a Xerox copy of an old, grainy microfilmed photograph couldn’t soften the impact of what she was seeing. It was wrong, she thought. They should never have printed this in a newspaper.

  The image was of the burned-out husk of a small country church. The white-wash paint on the outside clapboards was still glistening white. Only the edges of the window frames were charred, as were the seams around the door. The heat had punched through the roof like the top of a birthday cake, the sunlight streaming into the center of the sanctuary. If only the picture had stopped there.

  Jess pulled her eyes away and forced herself to read the copy. Words she could handle.

  The church had gone up during a Sunday evening service. It was the dead of winter and the shutters had been latched securely. What the parishioners did not know was that the church doors were also latched, and padlocked. The kerosene lanterns used to illuminate the hymnals were found smashed on the cast iron wood stove used for heating. It was believed that Cyrus Randell himself had lit the bonfire that ended all their lives.

  Jess looked again.

  The fathers and mothers and children were stacked like cord wood at the church doors. Mothers had sheltered their young ones in their arms as the heat blasted away the flesh off their backs. Men clawed at the shutters uselessly, their bodies falling in black heaps beneath the window sills. Some even huddled together, perhaps in prayer, as the pews went up around them.

  And, slumped over the altar in a pile of ash, a single figure, presumably Cyrus Randell.

  He hadn’t been himself lately, a few remaining members had been heard to say. He just hadn’t been himself.

  “Please turn the page,” said Jess softly.

  Maddie obliged as Jess sat back in her chair and tried to scrub the last five minutes out of her brain. She didn’t need to see that; it was just more questions.

  “I still don’t see what all this has to do with Willow Tree,” said Jess, stymied.

  Now it was Maddie’s turn to sit back. “What do you think you’ve been looking at?”

  “Those are the beginnings of Willow Tree, I get that. I just don’t -”

  “No, honey, I don’t think you do get it. Willow Tree started a long time ago, with that cemetery and that big ass tree. It culminated right there,” pointing to her scrapbook, “in the Rusty Gate.”

  The image of the church ruins was still fresh in her mind, and she overlaid them with thoughts of that rustic inn where she had laid her head the night before. It made her skin crawl.

  “Are you saying that Cyrus’ church … is now that inn? That all those people …” Jess swallowed hard. “So, this really was about ghosts?”

  “Of a sort,” agreed Maddie.

  “But I saw the commendation from the governor in their lobby. It didn’t say anything about a fire.”

  “Helps if you’re the one writing the commendation.”

  Jess flashed on Eunice’s steely glare coming at her from across the front desk of the Rusty Gate, and she found she wasn’t surprised. Those eyes could probably make a politician do just about anything.

  “So, Eunice built the Rusty Gate on the bones of that congregation.”

  “She wasn’t alone. I imagine the county wanted to put that fire behind them as quickly as possible. Even after the rubble had been cleared, there was still a specter of death in those woods for years. They probably saw Eunice’s offer as manna from heaven.”

  “Christ,” Jess gasped, staring at the scrapbook. “When I stepped in this shit, I had no idea it was going to cover my boots.”

  “Hell, I was still wading through it when I put it away almost twenty-five years ago. Never did get all the wrinkles out.”

  “Like what?” asked Jess, folding her hands on the table.

  “Well … like how Cyrus Randell, who by all accounts was a caring pastor of his flock, one day decides to set a torch to the lot of them, his own family included. Now, I don’t pretend to know what makes a man do that, but I do know it cleared the way for Eunice to once again take possession of her ancestral home.”

  “Wait. What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m not trying to say anything. I’m just speculatin’. Like I’m speculatin’ about how Eunice stepped off the planet the year after her husband died, only to reemerge forty-three years later flush enough to buy back her ancestor’s land. Ancestors, by the way, who should not exist.”

  “Hey, hold on,” said Jess, getting into it. “You can’t know for sure that Eunice never had any children. I mean, for all we know, Josiah might have done the deed before he went off to war. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Okay,” argued Maddie, ready to play the game she had played many times before, “then, where was she? Where had little Eunice Jr. been? She’d be around thirty-five at the time of the sale. There were no birth records. They did a census in 1900, nothing there. And, yes, I checked that ancestry website. There was no Josiah Jr. either. So, who birthed the Eunice that birthed Eunice, and so on?”

  “Surely they would’ve checked during the land sale. Wouldn’t it seem a bit odd to have two Pembrys on the same deed?”

  Maddie shook her head. “There was no reason to tie her to the Eunice of old. There were no such things as forensic accountants back then. The land she bought belonged to Cyrus Randell, not Pembry. The more cash you had in the bank, the fewer questions were asked. She promised them a shiny new bed and breakfast, and she made good on the deal. You can attest to that.”

  “It’s hardly a little bed and breakfast anymore.” A sunbeam caught Jess’ eye. The light was beginning to stream through the west windows. She checked her phone. If she was going to make it back before dark, she needed to leave. She wasn’t that anxious to get back to the Rusty Gate anymore, but …

  “I’ve got a room waiting for me in that cozy little bed and breakfast, so …”

  “Yeah,” said Maddie, looking toward the stacks “I’ve got some dust to move around, so …”

  As Jess turned to leave, she took one last look at the thing on the table. It was just an old scrapbook, wasn’t it? It didn’t mean anything, not really.

  Jess took a deep breath and tried to massage the wrinkles from her forehead. “So … what we’re saying here … and I just want to hear myself say it … is that Eunice Pembry is almost 150 years old.”

  Maddie never cracked a smile. “Well, that’s just crazy talk, now isn’t it?”

  Jess thought that was the first sane thing that Maddie had said all day.

  Willow, 1870

  He would never have actually seen the sun, had it not been for the woman.

  Willow felt the sun’s rays like stabbing knives into his eyes, a simile he now shared with her. Pain, as a concept, he understood, but as a sensation, it was agonizing. It was the same heat and cold and thirst and hunger he had experienced in the ground, but bark was not skin, and limbs and roots were not arms and legs.

  How did these humans survive in these extreme conditions? And not simply survive … but thrive. Willow was feeling threatened even as the warm sun touched raw skin and the blustery wind rippled tiny hairs on arms and back. The more of the woman that cleared the soil, the more the sensations flooded his thoughts and feelings. Each finger clawing dirt, each muscle pulling for the surface like a swimmer through water, brought new dangers for which he was not prepared.

  But, the woman was prepared.

  The primal urge to breathe air and feel sunlight and stand freely on two feet drove the woman to battle her way up out of the ground. The sensations that Willow thought unbearable, she saw simply as the cost of doing business.

  It was not a feeling that was familiar to him, but the skin-crawling paranoia that made him want to draw up into a ball, the woman identified as shame, and she was fighting it. The more skin that was exposed to their surroundings, the stronger the pull to sink back into the protective earth. Words
like nakedness and immoral and indecent clouded his vocabulary. They seemed to serve no purpose other than to confound his progress, but he couldn’t deny their power.

  He. She. There was also an undeniable purpose in these words, a power. And, though the woman was female of this species, Willow did not identify himself with her. Yet, he was her. It was to be a complicated transition.

  The woman … or was it him? … snapped roots and tendrils from the new flesh as it, as he, emerged from their interment, patches of soil and worms and leaves clinging to its nude form. Her arms wrapped protectively around as a cold blast reminded them of their vulnerability. They could not hide beneath the tree much longer.

  The woman remembered the path that had led her from the desolate town to the dark shelter of the giant willow tree. They took a tentative step from the tree, then another. Her feet settled into the soft loam with each hesitation.

  The Willow was not going back.

  He pressed forward until she crept out from under the shade of the tree and felt the stark rays of the sun on his bare skin. The paranoia fueled their rush to the safety of the next pine or dogwood or scrap of sagebrush that lined the footpath into town. The trail was overgrown, and Willow wondered if the woman was the last one to have used it. He had been preoccupied with her, and had not sensed another presence. Perhaps the town she remembered was long deserted.

  Her legs ached from running and crouching. Scratches drew tiny lines of red on every part of her. These new feet were unaccustomed to running barefoot over rocks and brush, and bloody footprints began to follow them along the trail. Then, she saw it up ahead.

  The home was no more than a rough hewn cabin at the edge of town, but wisps of smoke twisted into the air from the crooked stovepipe in its roof. What caught the woman’s eye were the clothes hanging to dry on the line in back. There were more clothes than need be for one person, which meant there were likely women’s clothes as well as men’s. This also meant that there were more people who might see the naked woman stealing from their backyard.

  The woman looked to the west, at the warm fireball which turned red as it settled behind the trees. There would soon be less light, and many a thief could slip about in the shadows that remained. If only the cabin’s tenants would leave their laundry hanging for the night.

  Willow felt the woman’s fear of a long night with no covering, and he caught her frustration at having no control over this outcome. She was used to being in control of her life, and of the lives of others. She believed control had been stolen from her with the death of her mate, and now the dice were rolling again. To rely on fortuity for her very life was intolerable. She could not conceive of such an existence. The springs of will coiled tightly within her, and Willow began to sense that he was only along for the ride.

  The woman made her move in the faint glow of the dusk. Clothing, cool but dry, was snatched from the line as she passed through their backyard in a blur. She was swallowed up by the dense woods as they, the Woman and the Willow, made for the property she had occupied with her husband. She knew of places in those woods where they would never be found. They could hide in those place while they thought of what to do next.

  Willow could feel the hunger of the woman rumble deep within him. But, she knew where food could be found, and other things. It was a long night ahead, and they would soon take a trip into town. She sent a wave of calm through his bones and sinews. She was, after all, in control.

  As the woman plotted and planned, Willow became aware of a rumble of his own. The soil beneath his tree quivered with energy, and he knew why. The rising of the woman had set a thing in motion. Soon, there would be more. Men and women would crawl from the dirt, and Willow would draw them here. The woman would clothe them and feed them and lead them, and Willow would give them life.

  And, in time, Willow would roam the earth.

  He was, after all, in control.

  Annabel, October 9th

  You will wish to stay longer, and you will think you can. You cannot.

  Annabel had gone over and over it in her mind. She had not stayed too long. She had not tempted fate. Like a good girl, she had come home after only one night.

  And now that one night was curled up snoring in the bed next to her.

  There had been no rule about screwing the locals. She might have bent that rule, had it existed, but she had checked; it did not.

  Now, she had a big, fat problem. Well, not fat, really. This problem was as brawny and ripped as a lumberjack, but a problem nonetheless.

  Gus Evans’ chest rose and fell in a rhythmic wave that pulled her in like a tide, and soon she was breathing with him. She lay back down and draped an arm across him carefully. Wouldn’t do to wake him, not just yet. Annabel had to puzzle some things out first.

  He could not be here.

  That was the problem, and part of the attraction. There was always a risk of discovery on her little jaunts delivering fruits and vegetables. Annabel was not unknown to the men of the surrounding towns. For all she knew, they might have gotten together and compared notes, and that was fine with her. She suspected her reviews were on the high side.

  Everyone understood the urges. But you never brought one home. Yet, here he was, purring like a kitten on a warm lap. She had obviously made an impression.

  The tide had come in that night, too.

  Gus was a man who enjoyed the seduction as much as she did. The sly grin he flashed at her when she had come back into the lobby of the Starlight Motor Inn had said it all: he had expected her to come back, and he knew what for, but he would pretend that he didn’t. For a little while …

  “Did you lose your key, miss?”

  It was the classic opening line to a porno movie, and Annabel knew her part.

  “Well,” she began innocently, holding up her key card, “when I put the thing in the slot, it doesn’t light up.”

  “I can’t believe that you would have a hard time making something light up,” he said, his voice like warm butter.

  She went up on her tip-toes and leaned in, her breasts settling on the counter. She had undone her two top buttons. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t need three.

  “I normally don’t put it in the slot myself, but I seem to be alone this evening.”

  Gus rose from his stool behind the front counter. He set down the magazine he had been reading and stepped closer. His eyes were exactly where she wanted them to be.

  “I see,” he said. “Well … we are a full service hotel.”

  “I’ve heard that about you,” she lied, looking him up and down.

  Gus glanced around the empty lobby. Then, his eyes were back on her. “It is a slow night. I suppose I could check out your … slot … and make sure it lights up.”

  At this point, the audience would be humping in their seats.

  Gus opened her door. Then, once they were inside, he opened her dress. It fell to the floor effortlessly. It was the only thing she had been wearing.

  Gus said nothing about her rough hands, if he had noticed them at all. He said nothing about the dirt that was still buried under what was left of her fingernails. He said nothing. For the next hour, he had made her feel like she was the only woman in the world.

  It had been harder saying goodbye to him than any of the others. She had, in fact, never said goodbye. After he had gone back to work, she laid the key card on the night stand, and slipped out. She drove all night, invigorated and … there was something else, but she hadn’t felt it before, so she couldn’t name it. But, it kept her awake all the way to Willow Tree.

  Annabel had called in sick to Morgan Farms. She had no desire to see the place again … or to see the thing that would replace Paul. They knew she wasn’t sick; they knew it was because of her friend, Paul, and the memories, and that was excuse enough. They would have given her a day or two off anyway, as they would expect her to go to the tree.

  These bruises weren’t going to heal themselves.

  The bruises.

/>   Gus hadn’t spoken of the bruises last night. Like their first encounter, he had been a man of few words. But, he had also been over every inch of her body, and he had lingered on some of the most grievous parts. Perhaps he was waiting for her to insert an explanation. She never offered.

  A woman had to maintain a certain semblance of mystery.

  So, he proceeded to feel away her shame and hurt and he never spoke of it. That’s why Annabel feared his waking. She feared what he would say when he finally started to speak.

  Sadly, passion could only get them so far.

  Gus couldn’t stay here in Willow Tree. It was like straying too far from the tree, or meddling in clan politics; there were just some things you did not do. Smuggling a local into town was right up at the top of the list. She would have to smuggle him out before one of the clans got wind of it or … well, truth was, she didn’t know what the or was. She had never heard of this being done. They would probably get creative with her, use her as an example to anyone else contemplating a similar indiscretion.

  Damn it! Why did she have to be such a pioneer?

  What did she imagine was going to happen here? She had given him her real name and address on the check-in sheet; who does that? She knew how this game was played. You never gave them everything; you always kept a little something for yourself.

  “Mmm …” His slumbering form stirred, and Annabel was out of time.

  He rolled into the crook of her arm as he rubbed the sleepers out of his hazel eyes. Long, curly brown hair fell across his face and she brushed it away with her free hand. She was feeling that feeling again, the one she couldn’t name, and she knew she was going to have to get that looked at. Maybe Doc Crispin could give her a pill or a poultice or something to make her stop feeling this way. Except, she didn’t want to stop, and that was really the problem.