Page 72 of Buried in the Woods Below

I catch a figure running into the underbrush. Heavy and halting. It looks like Russ Neuman, but I can’t be sure.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters under his breath. He storms toward the front door, and I jog to keep up with him. The crickets heighten their chirps as if they are feeding off Eric’s anger.

He snatches the note and reads it. I peer over his shoulder.

In the same crooked, deranged, immature handwriting, the note says:

PIGS GET FED

HOGS GET SLAUGHTERED

With every word I read, I feel my chest cinching. I search his face for shared dread, but he just clenches his jaw and shoves the note into his pocket.

“What are you going to do?” I ask, my voice coated with urgency.

He raises an eyebrow and glares. “I’m not going to do anything. This is a stupid prank by a lonely old man with too much time on his hands.”

“But you said you’d call the police? How can you be certain it’s Russ? It could be a psychopathic stranger.”

He rolls his eyes. “You sound like Laelynn.” The ultimate insult. “The police have better things to do with their time. I don’t want to involve them in this. Besides, she already reported this, and you see where that’s gotten us.” He opens the door, lowering his voice. “Now, I’m going to bed. It’s been a long night.”

I follow him inside and whisper, “I just think it—”

“Good night, Charlotte.” His voice carries an edge I haven’t heard before. I watch him take the stairs up to his room.

“Good night.”

I shut the guest room door behind me and soak in what just transpired. I notice my hands are shaking. None of this makes sense. Why won’t Eric call the police? Russ Neuman, or whoever is leaving these notes, is definitely not just playing pranks. But Eric was so insistent that we not involve the cops. Why? What is he hiding? I look up at the beams of the old house running along the ceiling and think of Marjorie Neuman.

But that’s not what’s shaking me. I saw something in Eric tonight. An anger. Something I saw in my dad on those nights when alcohol seized him.

As I drift off, the warning lingers in my mind:

You should leave our dad alone. Or the ghost will get you too.

Chapter 34

September 3

Thunder shatters my sleep. I flinch and snatch the covers close, hands clenched and body slick with sweat. My skull throbs. My neck and shoulders ache. There’s blood on my lip. The memory of a nightmare dissolves in my mind before I can grab it. Vivek. A girl. The one from outside my window? Clouded light streams through fogged glass, telling me it’s morning. Still, the knot in my chest remains.

The scent of fresh-brewed coffee slips under my door. I hear Eric’s baritone and Emma’s and Penelope’s laughter over the steady rain. The knot loosens, and I smile to myself. I feel like a mom whose husband has given her a few extra hours of sleep. I let the nightmare go, and for a moment, I picture myself being part of a complete family again.

But the peace doesn’t last.

As I step into the shower, the pounding in my head resumes, and sickness grips my stomach. The same sensation as the other morning—that I did something horrible last night. Then I remember…Eric. I tried to kiss Eric. The steaming hot water rolls down my back, and I turn it hotter, half punishing myself, half disinfecting myself from my recklessness. Laelynn deserves better from me.

I change into joggers and a Winthrop sweatshirt and prepare myself to face the music. As I walk into the living room, I glance out the floor-to-ceiling windows into the abyss. Charcoal clouds cloak the sky, and a thick mist rises off the water. Thunder rumbles in the background, low and steady, like an animal’s growl.

Then I catch movement in the water. I squint my eyes, thinking it must be a fish or an animal, but it’s Olivia. She’s swimming in the fog, her toned arms lazily backstroking through the water, having the time of her life. Typical Olivia. You could drop her into hell, and she’d fire up the barbecue. I smile to myself, thankful I’ve found her again.

“Good morning,” says Eric, spotting me from the kitchen. He stands over a griddle, spatula in hand, flipping pancakes. He’s wearing another of his joke aprons. This one says I like you a latte. Just when I think the puns can’t get any worse.

Emma and Penelope stand on either side of him, overseeing the process. From the flour on their faces and blueberry stains on their hands, it’s clear they’ve been the sous chefs this morning.

I wave sheepishly, my face tingling.

Emma and Penelope say, “Good morning, Charlotte,” simultaneously and wave, then give me a hug, their tiny arms wrapping around my waist. My chest softens. Maybe they’re finally warming up. Or they’re just missing their mom. Eric beams at them.