Near the Bone Read online

  Home. Not my home. William’s home.

  She trudged forward, hardly able to lift her feet. They felt like two heavy blocks of ice attached to her ankles. It was even darker under the trees, with the moon still hidden by the clouds and the branches crouching over the path like giants’ arms.

  They might grab me up and take me away, take me to a place far from here. She knew she was on the verge of hysteria, that exhaustion and terror and pain had sapped her so that she didn’t know how to think in a straight line.

  All that nonsense about Samantha. That’s a fantasy, a dream. There is no Samantha. There’s only Martha.

  Her left eye throbbed. There was a faint buzzing in her ears and just under it she heard the crunch of her footsteps in the snow and her own labored breath.

  A branch broke nearby, the crack of wood as startling as thunder.

  Mattie stopped, listening hard, biting down on her lower lip to keep herself from exhaling.

  It’s out there, she thought, and there was no doubt, no attempt to convince herself that it was a deer or a squirrel. The sound came from the creature. She knew it with every terrified beat of her own heart.

  She peered into the trees, trying to detect any shape that wasn’t a tall, slim tree trunk, but it was hard to see anything properly with only one eye.

  It could stand right next to me and I wouldn’t know. I’d never see it until I turned my head.

  Mattie didn’t move for several moments. There was no other sound so she cautiously started forward again, trying to make less noise. She was conscious of every rustle of clothing, the swipe of her long braid against the back of her coat, the squeak of her leather boots, the rough exhale of her breath.

  Something else was breathing.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mattie stopped again, terror making her whole mouth numb. This time she heard the sound of its claws against the snow for just a half second before it, too, paused.

  It’s stalking me.

  Panic bloomed inside her. Sweat trickled over her ears.

  It’s stalking me. It’s playing with me.

  Mattie had no doubt that an animal that large could kill her with one disinterested swipe. It had no need to hunt her.

  Unless it wants me to be afraid first.

  But it was impossible that an animal would think like that, or that an animal could really even think.

  Only humans enjoy the fear of others, Mattie, don’t be stupid. It’s only being cautious, the way predators will be, making certain of their prey before they strike. You need to get away before it does.

  But how? She didn’t know exactly how far she was from the cabin. The path to the stream and the traps from the front door normally took about a half hour or so round trip, but she wasn’t going at anything near her normal walking pace. The cabin couldn’t be too far from where she stood, but would she reach it in time? Would the creature allow her to get that far?

  Just walk forward. Just move forward and try. If it attacks then you can . . . what? What can you do against a thing that size? You can’t even stop William.

  She stifled a crazy laugh, the kind of laugh that only emerged when a person was at the end of their rope.

  You won’t be able to stop it if it attacks.

  (but I don’t want to die)

  That stiffened her spine, because it was comforting to realize that despite everything, she didn’t want to give up and die right there. She still wanted to live, no matter how painful life was, no matter how much God had forsaken her.

  Mattie moved forward again. Now that she knew the creature was near, she heard its subtle movements, the way it carefully mirrored her pace.

  It’s not a normal animal. It’s not natural.

  The creature was on her left side, the blind side. If she turned her head she might catch a glimpse of its shape out of her right eye but she didn’t need to see it to know it was there.

  She felt it, felt the way it disturbed the air between them, felt the intensity of its stare—its watchfulness.

  Mattie was so frightened she could hardly feel her body. Her limbs seemed both stunningly heavy and light as air, and she felt caught in a kind of slow-motion haze. Her head throbbed, especially the left eye, and her mouth kept filling up with saliva, forcing her to swallow convulsively over and over. All the while she felt the shadow moving in time with her, smelled the rank scent of its fur and the blood on its breath.

  The blood in the snow and the animals hanging from the trees. Why does it do those things? Why does it not eat its prey the way an animal is supposed to? Why is it following me? Does it want to eat me or add me to its collection?

  The atmosphere seemed to shift, the quality of the creature’s attention changed. She sensed it, the way she could smell a storm approaching on a sunny day. Mattie’s heart beat even faster than it already was doing—a little rabbit sprinting away inside the hollow of her body.

  It’s had enough of this game. It’s going to attack.

  She curled up her fists, though she didn’t know what to do with them, didn’t know how she might hurt the creature, didn’t know if she’d even have a chance. Her hands seemed like tiny, pathetic things—weak and useless.

  You’re useless. That’s what William always said.

  And then the clouds shifted and the tiny sliver of moon was revealed and she saw the end of the path just ahead of her. The end of the path, and the clearing and the cabin beyond.

  “William,” she said, and a surge of energy she didn’t know she still had pushed her into a run.

  William had the gun. William could shoot the creature. He’d wanted to anyway—that was what the ridiculous, exhausting trek was supposed to be about earlier. And now Mattie was bringing the terror right to their door. All he had to do was stand on his porch and shoot it and she wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore, wouldn’t have to spend any more terrified nights out in the woods.

  Her sudden movements must have surprised the animal, for she didn’t hear it follow as she half-ran, half-staggered to the cabin.

  The lights were out—of course they were out. It was the middle of the night and William was asleep. The door seemed so far away, then it abruptly jerked closer, like time and space had suddenly shifted.

  Almost there, Mattie thought. Almost there.

  The creature hadn’t followed. She sensed its hesitation, its reassessment of potential threats. It snorted and pawed the ground, much like it had before it settled down to sleep, except this didn’t sound like settling. This sounded more like it was deciding to charge or not.

  The cabin door was suddenly before her, though she didn’t know how she’d managed to get there. A thrill of triumph shot through her as she grasped the knob, turned it, and pushed. The door rattled, shifted, stopped as it met the pressure of the bolt on the other side.

  William had locked the door.

  “William!” she called, pounding the wood with her fist, but her cries were small and feeble things just like her fists. He’d squeezed her throat too hard and she couldn’t scream even though she wanted to.

  “William!” she cried again, banging her forearms against the door. It rattled the bolt but stayed fast.

  She threw her body against it with all the strength she had left, calling her husband’s name, all the while thinking, How could he? How could he lock the door against me? How could he leave me out here?

  He was a heavy sleeper, so it was possible he hadn’t heard her knocking, but she had to wake him. If she didn’t wake him she’d be out in the clearing all night, and sooner or later the creature would come out of the trees. She didn’t think it would wait much longer.

  And when it did, it would open her up, take her bones, string her to one of the branches that lined the path to its cave. All William would find in the morning would be a splash of scarlet in the snow.

  Like the fox
, except it didn’t take the fox. I wonder why.

  She wondered, too, how part of her was still wondering about the fox when she was about to meet its fate.

  “William,” she called. “Please, wake up. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please let me in.”

  She thought she heard movement in the cabin—the creak of a floorboard, the faint rustle of clothing.

  “William, please, I’ll be good, I’ll do anything you say, only let me in because the monster is out here with me, it’s been following me, please, please let me in.”

  She scraped at the door with her mittened hands, slumping to the ground. “Please,” she whispered. “Please, please.”

  Another creak. Mattie was suddenly certain that William stood on the other side of the door, perfectly awake.

  He never went to sleep. He was sitting there in the dark, waiting for me, waiting to punish me no matter when I got home.

  “William,” she said, but she couldn’t yell any more, or try to. She didn’t even know if the word actually came out of her mouth.

  A third creak. She knew he was deciding whether or not she deserved to stay out all night for coming home later than he’d said to do.

  I’m going to die. Everything I’ve done to get here has come to nothing, because William is not going to open that door.

  She knew it with the same certainty that the sun would rise in the morning. He wanted to teach her a lesson, and he probably didn’t believe her when she said the creature was following her.

  William was not going to let her into the cabin. Mattie should save her energy, stop banging away at the door. She needed to find somewhere to hide. But where?

  The storehouse was just as bad as the cabin—William locked the storehouse and kept the key hanging on a special key ring, the one Mattie was never allowed to touch. The only other shelter was the outhouse, and “shelter” was a hopeful word at best.

  The outhouse was much less sturdily built than the storehouse and the cabin, being, as William once said (with uncharacteristic crudity), “Only a place to shit out of the wind.”

  It wasn’t falling apart, but Mattie had much less confidence in her safety if she hid inside it. On top of everything else, there was the ignominy of hiding for her life inside an outhouse.

  The creature roared, and it was as if Mattie had never heard the sound properly before. The deep strangeness of it, the sense that it was many animals’ cries merged into one—those qualities were magnified by the closeness of the monster and the open clearing. Mattie couldn’t wait for William any longer.

  He’s not going to let me in anyway. It’s more important that he proves to himself that he’s right about me. If I die out here, it will only be divine punishment in his eyes.

  She clawed at the doorframe, using it to pull up to her feet again. Branches cracked in the woods that surrounded the cabin.

  Mattie heaved herself around the cabin, past her little garden, past the grave of her child and up to the very edge of the clearing and into the outhouse. The door was inclined to slam shut, so she pulled it closed behind her as silently as she could, wincing at the squeal of the hinges.

  There was no lock or latch, nothing to make her feel safe even though she knew a creature of that size could tear the door from its hinges. She half-wondered why she was even bothering to hide, except that she felt she shouldn’t stop trying to live—not yet, anyway.

  The smell in the outhouse was not as extreme as it would be in summer, but it was still unpleasant. Mattie had a vague idea that it might cover up her scent and the creature wouldn’t be able to find her, though she didn’t truly believe it could be fooled by such tricks. It wasn’t a regular sort of animal.

  What an embarrassing way to die, hiding in the toilet. She covered her mouth with her mittens, trying not to giggle. Why, oh why, was she about to laugh when her life was in danger?

  It’s because you’re scared, so scared you’re on the verge of hysteria. Then she heard it outside, the huffs and the snorts, its enormous bulk moving slowly toward the place where she hid.

  Mattie backed away from the door, but there was nowhere to go in the tiny space. William had put a wooden lid over the hole (“because we’re not animals, Mattie”), and she sat down on the lid very quietly, and made herself as still as possible.

  She heard the creature sniffing outside, very close, and thought now would be an excellent time for William to come charging out of the cabin with the rifle. But of course there was no sound of the cabin door opening and closing, no crack of a shot to shatter the night.

  There was only Mattie, cowering in an outhouse because her husband refused to open the door to her, and the monster crouched outside.

  A few of the boards had small knotholes in them. Mattie could have peered through to see the creature, to know precisely what it was doing, but she was afraid to move, afraid to look, afraid that if the creature felt her eyes upon it that it would strike.

  It doesn’t matter. It has to know where you’ve gone. It’s smart enough to follow you through the forest, sneaking all the way. It’s got some plan of its own, one that you could never hope to understand.

  The creature roared again, long and loud. It was right outside the door, sure to strike. Mattie closed her right eye and braced for the blow, the way she always did.

  The blow never came. After several agonizing minutes, Mattie opened her eye. She no longer saw the shadow of the animal through the cracks in the wall. Had it left? But why would it do that?

  The animal had followed her all this way, had known exactly where she was hidden. Why wouldn’t it strike while it had her cornered?

  Maybe it has moved away from the outhouse but is still waiting out there, waiting for you to walk out into its arms.

  Mattie didn’t hear it any longer, didn’t hear its snorts and huffs or the sound of its claws scraping through the snow. But that didn’t mean anything. She knew that it could sneak, could be silent when it wanted. She didn’t dare go out again, even if she had to sit there all night, her anxiety stretched thin and tight.

  But why would morning be any better? It was during daylight when she’d found the fox, and when she and William had heard the noise in the trees. The creature wasn’t limited to nighttime hunting.

  Though my discovery of the fox was late in the day. She couldn’t think why this mattered. Her thoughts were going in crazy circles again. It just seemed that the light of the morning should make everything better, that a new day ought to wash away the terror of the night.

  I don’t know why you think that, Mattie, it never has before. Every day only brings fresh terrors.

  Something broke inside her then, the thing that had kept her scurrying, head bowed, anxious to please a husband who never wanted to be pleased but only hunted for faults to correct.

  William had locked the door against her, chosen his pride over her safety. He’d been awake—Mattie was certain of that. He must have heard the roar of the creature outside. He’d know she wasn’t lying, that her life was in danger, and he didn’t care.

  He didn’t care what happened to her as long as she learned a lesson—his lesson. If she survived then William would consider it divine providence, a sign that God had preserved her for the benefit of her husband.

  As soon as she thought this, she felt the second string that held up her life snap, the empty threads falling away inside her. There was no God. There was only William, and the stories he told to control her.

  Something flailed inside her—the terrified little mouse that she had been. It scrabbled for purchase, grasped desperately for those broken strings.

  No, Samantha said. You don’t have to be that mouse anymore.

  Mattie remembered standing on the edge of a picnic table in her mother’s yard, leaping into the air, absolutely confident that she could fly if she just believed that she could do it. She’d do it over and over,
and every single time she’d feel something—a push, a lift of air under her feet—and know that she was nearly there, that the next time she’d fly for sure, soar away like a beautiful falcon.

  Who do you want to be? Samantha whispered. A falcon or a mouse?

  Mattie didn’t know if she could be a falcon or not, but she didn’t want to scurry along the ground any longer.

  She stayed in the outhouse until she saw the light of dawn brightening the interior of her foul hiding place. Then she pushed open the door, wondering what the day would bring, wondering what she ought to do next.

  How can I even look at William now? What am I to do?

  Mattie stopped, staring at the snow before her. There were marks scratched there, almost like symbols, carved with a bloody claw.

  She couldn’t make sense of them, felt overwhelmed by the very idea of them—an animal making shapes in the snow, shapes meant for her to see.

  Then the meaning of the symbols suddenly snapped into place, and she understood why the creature had followed her the night before, why it hadn’t killed her.

  It wanted to know where she lived—her and William—because they’d gone into its lair. And it wanted to warn them to stay away. The writing in the snow was a warning.

  Mattie didn’t think that they would receive a second warning.

  She caught movement at the bedroom window and saw a flash of William’s face there before it disappeared. A moment later she heard the cabin door slam.

  He strode around the building. She could tell by the look on his face—the compressed lips, the ice-chip gaze—that he was gearing up for a lecture on the Proper Behavior of an Obedient Wife. But Mattie didn’t want to hear his lecture.

  No, she thought. Samantha doesn’t want to hear it.

  Mattie didn’t want another beating, though. She was sick and sore and exhausted from the last one and her ordeal of the night, so she pointed mutely at the symbols on the ground and hoped that William would be sufficiently distracted to forget about whatever he had in store for her.