Page 36 of Buried in the Woods Below

Life doesn’t frighten me at all.”

I can still hear his voice as the poem ends. Silence. For a moment, I think our interaction has ended. But then he shouts two sentences that cut through the forest like a blade.

“You shouldn’t have come here.” He pauses, and I catch a tremor in his voice. “Bad things happen to people in that house.”

Chapter 18

I sprint through the forest back to the Parkers’ home, Russ’s words crawling up my spine. Pine needles and birch branches slice my skin, but I don’t care. I want to be free of this labyrinth. I finally spot the cluster of trees that leads to the Parkers’ and slow down to a walk, not wanting to frighten them. Sweat pours from my armpits, and my hair feels like I stuck my finger in a socket.

I catch a whiff of chrysanthemum telling me I’m back on safer ground. I inhale and exhale slowly to steady my breathing and retie my hair into a ponytail. The yard stands still and empty, but I swear I can hear the echo of Russ Neuman.

A little girl fell off that Ferris wheel and died.

Bad dogs barking loud.

You shouldn’t have come here.

I spotted a glint of recognition behind his eyes when I mentioned the note. As if he knew something. But what? Something about me? Something about the Parkers? Something about his mother’s death? I wonder if there’s more to this than simply land. Is Eric hiding something? Is Laelynn?

As I reach the house, I notice the Parkers have removed Heathcliff’s body from the path. If I didn’t know otherwise, I would assume everything was fine—except for the silence. The sounds of Heathcliff—the pitter-patter of his paws, the panting breaths, the jingle of the bell around his neck—are gone.

I enter, expecting to see the family, but the living room and kitchen sit empty. Laelynn must be upstairs with Olivia and the girls. My nose catches the stink from my armpits, a mix of sweat and fear, and I realize I need a shower. But I have to tell someone about Russ Neuman now or I’ll burst. I walk down the hallway opposite my bedroom toward Eric’s office, hoping I can catch him away from Laelynn. He seems the least likely to overreact.

When I reach the end of the hallway, I notice his door is closed. A cute wood-framed sign hangs on the outside that says, “Quiet, please. Baker at work.” I smile and knock, but there’s no response. He could be wearing headphones, lost in thought, I rationalize, my fingers closing around the cold metal. As it clicks open, I don’t know what I’m expecting to see—maybe a desk with some memorabilia from the Parker family bakery business—but it’s not this. The first thing I notice is the must, like you’d expect in someone’s basement. To the left stands an antique mahogany desk, window overlooking a vibrant spread of chrysanthemums framed by dark forest curling around the side of the house. It’s a quaint little nook where you could picture someone writing a novel.

I hear my dad clink ice in a whiskey glass.

But that’s where the quaintness ends. A series of frames clumped tightly—like family photos—hang on the wall, but in place of modern pictures of the Parkers are antique photos from what looks like Big Island. A man fishing off the dock, his shirtsleeves rolled. Two children in petticoats hover behind him like ghosts from another time. A photo of a Dakota chief named Shakopee. More amusement park memorabilia: rotted old ticket stubs, architect drawings, relics of another time.

Opposite the door, a series of bookshelves runs along the wall. But instead of carrying books, they hold porcelain dolls; ancient dolls. Each one more disturbing than the one before. Hundreds of pale, damaged faces, some with gouged-out eyes, stare back at me. Real human hair of blond, brown, and red hangs from their heads, their faces chipped and scarred. They look as though they might come alive at any moment.

Beneath the pictures is the pièce de résistance: an authentic early 1900s fortune-telling machine, which is somehow even creepier than the dolls. The machine rests in a dark walnut wood cabinet six feet tall. At the top, a sign in bloodred and gold says, “Grandmother’s Predictions.” Beneath the sign, behind glass panes, a pale wax mannequin looms in silk, her dry gray hair twisted into a bun, reading spectacles clinging to the sharp bridge of her nose. A fake candle hovers on a desk in front of her and beneath another sign that says, “What Does Grandma Say?”

I don’t know what Grandma says. And I’m pretty sure I don’t want to.

But I do want to know more about this house. About how Eric Parker got it. About Russ Neuman. Why he told me I shouldn’t have come. And what happened to Marjorie Neuman? To Heathcliff?

I open Eric’s top desk drawer. Just pens and sticky notes.

I move to the top side drawer. Work papers. Bills from the bakery.

I check the bottom. It’s a file drawer lined with manila folders labeled clearly. “Vehicle information.” “Insurance.” “Tax.” “Business.”

I flip through the business folder. Find the Parker Bakery P&L and balance sheet. Eric’s doing well. Margins are strong. Plenty of assets. No debt. But sales decreased in the prior two periods. Looks like they closed a store.

Then I see it.

“Personal real estate.”

I pull out the folder and riffle through the papers. Mostly what I suspected. Mortgage and deed to the Parkers’ house. Land survey.

But then I catch the documentation for the purchase of the Big Island house: $1.25 million. The $3.5 million Zillow valuation flashes through my mind. Eric got this for a song. But this isn’t the only property. I see a few other deeds to parcels on Big Island. I note the addresses. Laelynn wasn’t kidding. Eric really is trying to become the king of Big Island.

I hear a creak.

Someone is coming. I slam the drawer shut.

Not wanting to seem like I’m snooping, I search for somewhere to hide. I spot a small closet tucked next to Eric’s desk, but it’s too tiny to fit me. I search the room. Could I hide behind the fortune-telling machine? No. Too exposed. Under the desk? Possibly, but if someone caught me…