The Complete Collection (9 page)
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Authors: Susan Shultz
After
Jessie stands against a violet dusk.
It took a look time for them to find the old woman’s body.
The doctor was the one who made the gruesome discovery during a scheduled
monthly visit.
The local constable also visited, but his efforts to solve
the murder were brief and unenthusiastic.
Perhaps it was that string of deaths that made outsiders
uneasy at the old homestead. Perhaps that’s why it remained empty for so long a
time.
Haunted?
Maybe.
Jessie’s husband made a brief return to collect some of his
belongings.
When he looked out at the yard, he saw the four gravestones
watching him from above on the hill.
And from a distance, he could hear a sound coming from the
woods:
Rock.
Creak
.
Rock.
Creak
.
He felt a chill at the base of his neck. Jessie watched him
quickly climb back on his horse and gallop away. He never came back.
Jessie was glad.
At first, Jessie worried that the nature of her husband’s
mother’s death meant she might become whatever it was that they had become,
also.
But the Blacksmith never was worried.
The old woman went somewhere else. She does not belong
with us.
Jessie’s own existence has evolved. She long ago learned to
accept herself, to accept that with darkness, comes light.
Her hair has never looked more beautiful; long and lustrous.
If you visit the yard, you won’t see her.
But you might hear her.
Moon cradle…
You might hear their ancient whispers, fluttering the
through leaves.
Especially at the moments when fall is starting to chase the
summer away.
Her quiet baby gurgles, and his father’s eyes flash with
blue fire.
The Blacksmith is never far away.
Against the violet sky, his silhouette is both withdrawn and
protective.
Jessie is neither jealous nor possessive of her Blacksmith.
She knows his strength and fire are gifts to be shared
— but only with those who will understand and need him.
He is always listening, but still does not speak with words.
Jessie’s dark heart is finally full.
But, for a long time she has missed having someone to talk
to.
And now, at last, she has me:
My name is Ainsley.
I live among the dead.
Dirt
Book 3
Tales from the Graveyard
By Susan Shultz
For my husband and children, who remain ever so patient
with my writing process.
This story is dedicated to the hearts of the hardworking
community journalists with whom I have been honored to share my journalistic
journey—those who, like Lila, fight hard every day to report the truth
without sacrificing their integrity and ethics.
I salute you.
“No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under
conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some,
to dream.”
—
The Haunting of Hill House
, Shirley Jackson
Table of
Contents
QUEEN KILLS DOZENS
LOONEY
LIBRARIAN HATED MEN
POLICE:
GARDEN GRAVEYARD IS GRUESOME
I flip through the headlines of the
big city tabloids sitting on my desk. Normally I would roll my eyes at their
dramatic hyperbole, but in this case, they aren't all that far off. The scene
at the house on the hill really was more horrific than anyone could have
imagined.
I’ve been covering community news at
The Wilport Herald
for over a decade, and while we’ve had our share of crimes, none could have
prepared us for what lay beneath the earth up on that hill.
It was anyone's nightmare, and therefore, a reporter’s
dream.
The young woman in question, Ainsley Price—also
identified as “A.J.” by a close family friend named Sam—had never been
suspected of anything before this moment other than leading a boring, rather
anti-social life.
Post-mortem follow-up police work and reporting would later
piece together her double life—one of sex, murder, and cannibalism. Police
reports from the scene told of the butchered remains of dozens of men.
“Lila, why are you still here? Stop reading that filth. Go
home.”
I jump at the sound of my editor Raymond’s voice behind me.
“I know. I will. I just can’t get my mind off this story,
Ray. What would drive someone to do this?” I say.
And why can’t I get it off my mind, I wonder? Something
strange is echoing inside me that I can't quite put my finger on.
Ray watches me carefully.
“Who knows, sometimes people are just crazy. We can’t make
sense of their actions. I know it’s your nature to dig, but I think, in this
case, she was just a lunatic,” he says.
“Okay, maybe you’re right,” I say and sigh to myself.
Still, my eyes drift toward the photo on the front page of
one of the tabloids—a shy young woman, a woman who could even be pretty
if she wasn’t draped in drab, unflattering clothing.
It's so hard for me to imagine this woman as a killer. Which
is probably why she was so good at it.
What are you hiding, Ainsley...?
* * *
Later, with Raymond long gone and
dusk settling in, I get in my car and start the ignition.
I'm still preoccupied by this terrible crime story.
I’ve written a story acceptable for the paper based on police facts, leaving
out any details too gory for a community publication. My story is rote and
unremarkable for such a heinous crime.
But those are the rules, I guess.
The light changes and I hit the gas. Without fully realizing
it, I make a left instead of a right, finding myself drawn to the house.
Ainsley’s house.
Most people would call me crazy for wanting to drive up here
in the dark. But, yet again, my curiosity has gotten the best of me. It wasn't
even a conscious decision.
* * *
I slowly make my way up the
darkening gravel road leading to the house, set back high on a hill with
darkness behind it.
Her
house. A flock of unidentifiable birds are
disturbed from their evening perches and flap across my windshield, cawing
angrily.
A chill goes down my spine as they disappear into the fading
light.
I drive up as far as my nerves will let me, and then I park
my car. After a few deep breaths, I finally drum up the courage to open my car
door and get out. The air is eerily still. Another chill runs up my back.
The house and I stand face-to-face. It feels lifeless—yet
not. Suddenly, I can’t get any closer for fear that it might swallow me whole.
Instead, I walk to the yard—or rather, what remains of
the yard. Police looking for evidence—human remains—have torn the
earth to pieces. Police tape flutters in the wind like sad flags of surrender.
I’m looking at a heavily raked-over patch of dirt. An open
wound, a grave of the mingled blood from many deaths.
A
crack
sounds behind me and I turn quickly with a
gasp. I see nothing in the growing darkness.
Time to leave, Lila.
I turn around one last time to survey this place of misery
and death.
Where are you, Ainsley?
I'm trying to understand…
Beyond the torn-up earth, some dark shapes catch my eye. I
walk farther into the darkness and the shapes become clearer: a row of
crumbling tombstones standing watch over this shattered kingdom.
I feel the hairs on my neck stand up and sense that I’m
being watched, but the only sign of life I can hear is my own breathing.
A light wind ruffles my hair and I catch a faint sound, like
the flapping of the birds' wings, but fainter.
Against my better judgment—and almost against my
will—I follow the sound, slowly making my way in the dark, getting closer
to those beaten stones, those beacons of death.
Almost at the foot of a tombstone, my trembling hand reaches
toward the ground. Beneath it I can feel something; an object covered in filth.
I lift and dust the dirt off of a small notebook. I use my cellphone as a light
to look closer and peer at the handwritten lines on the first page.
Both a chill and shot of journalistic jubilation shoots
through my spine.
Notebook in hand, I slowly make my way back to my car in the
dark. I turn once more to look at the dark house and hold the notebook close to
my heart.
Others will tell a story. I’m going to find the truth.
“That’s a promise, Ainsley,” I whisper.
Because I am a reporter. And that's what I do.
As I drive away, a shadow moves across the watchful
tombstones. A shadow I don’t see, but feel.
I drop my keys on the side table and
my laptop bag on the floor by the door. I suddenly feel exhausted.
“Working late again?” Scott says as I sit down wearily on
the couch.
I rub my eyes and look at my watch. Just past six o’clock.
“It’s not
that
late,” I say.
“Well, late for you on a Thursday,” he answers.
Get off my back, I think.
But then I feel bad. He’s not coming from a bad place. He
brings me a glass of wine. Much needed and appreciated.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’m just obsessed with this murder case.”
“You and everyone else around here,” he says, smiling.
“But that’s just it, Scott. Everyone else is obsessed in a
gossipy, gruesome, condemning way. I just feel like there’s more,” I say.
“I’m sure there is, but I hope you’re not asking me to tell
you anything about the investigation,” he says quietly.
I bristle.
“Of course not. You think I would do that? Besides, you’re
not even a cop in this town.”
“Lila, when a case like this happens, there isn’t just one
town involved. You know that better than anyone."
“I know. But
you
know by now that after all these
years I wouldn’t ever ask you to compromise your job ethics. Nor would I expect
you to compromise mine,” I say, more angrily than I meant to.
“Fine,” he says, turning to head back into the kitchen.
“Scott—I’m sorry. I’m just tired. I have a bit of a
headache,” I say.
I hear the refrigerator open and he comes back in to join me
on the couch with a beer.
“Bad day?” he asks.
“Not bad, I guess. Just…weird.”
He touches my hair.
“Weird how?”
“Well, I went there,” I say haltingly—almost guiltily.
Scott pauses for a second and looks at me.
“You went
where
, Lila?”
“To the house,” I respond quietly.
Another pause.
“Are you crazy?” he says.
That’s a possibility, I think to myself.
“I just wanted to see it. I want to try to understand,” I
say, quietly again.
“First of all, the investigation is still active, so it’s a crime
scene. You aren’t supposed to be there. Second of all, can you imagine the kind
of wackos a place like that attracts?”
“Wackos like me?” I smile.
“It’s not funny, Lila!”
“I know, I know,” I say.
“And I still don’t understand
why
you're so obsessed with
this. If she was still alive and on trial, then maybe…
maybe
…I could understand
you trying to explain her actions. But she’s dead, and all that really matters
is that she killed men. A lot of men. And more important than understanding
why
she did it is identifying those men for their loved ones. Forgive me if my
empathy goes to the victims, not the woman who butchered them and…and…I can’t
even say it,” Scott ends angrily.
Now it’s my turn to be annoyed.
“You’re only looking at it from a cop’s point of view. And,
maybe, a man’s point of view, Scott. My job is to question and not just accept
everything that’s given to me at face value. I’m not just solving a case. I’m
telling a story,” I say.
“Well, forgive me, Lila, if I don’t think this woman
deserves your time or your understanding. And quite frankly, I’m a little
disturbed that you want to give them to her,” he retorts.
I put my wineglass down.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I say.
“It means…” Scott says, pausing again. “It means who
cares
why she did it? She got left out of playing jump rope in sixth grade. Her daddy
abandoned her when she was little. Her mommy didn’t tell her she was special
enough. Whatever,” he stands up now.
“The facts are the facts—we all have our crosses to
bear. We all have tough lives. We don’t deal with them by killing others and
eating
their body parts. Do you hear me, Lila? She
ate
those poor bastards.
What kind of person does that? The only thing I care about is that she’s dead
and she can’t do it anymore. Who the hell cares why she did it?” he says.
“Scott, everything isn’t always exactly as it seems... Sometimes…sometimes
there's more of a monster inside of us than we think," I venture.
And with that, he heads back into the kitchen for another
beer.
I walk over to my laptop bag and open it for a moment,
pushing the journal down deep and out of sight.
What I don't tell him is that it's because I care.
I care.
