Page 91 of Buried in the Woods Below

They sit on the floor in the semidarkness, playing with their nineteenth-century dolls. The storm flickers outside the window like a broken light, strobing across cracked porcelain faces. They’ve arranged the dolls around a tiny table set with saucers and teacups, each doll’s face mangled—a missing eye, a gash in the cheek, chunks of hair ripped from their skull. A tea party of the dead, a gathering of corpses.

Penelope peers at me and squints like, Who dares to disturb the queen while she’s hosting a function? “Is it boat-ride time?”

“Oh, no. The boat’s not working.”

“Why are you all wet?”

I glance at Olivia, who shakes her head, silently telling me not to mention Laelynn. “Oh, I was just playing in the rain.”

She squints her eyes, sensing the lie. “You’re weird.”

Emma looks up at me and makes her own assessment. “What happened to the lights?”

“The storm took out the power. Were you scared?”

Penelope scoffs. “No, we’re not babies.”

Olivia tilts her head, and a sad smile crosses her face. “Yeah, Charlotte, we’re not babies.”

“Of course. How could I forget that?”

A door slams downstairs.

Olivia and I flinch. She nods. “It’s probably Dad. Go see if he found a radio.”

I run downstairs, heart thumping.

Eric hunches over a device, fiddling with the dials.

“You found one?” I ask.

He looks up, his face as stormy as the weather outside. “No. This is just a regular radio. Not a shortwave. But I figured it would at least tell us what we’re up against.” He presses a button, spins dials, and the radio leaps to life. I hear the familiar sounds of static and DJ voices.

The absurdly cheery jingle of a Menards commercial that’s been running since I was a kid drifts from the speakers. “Save big money at Menards,” the chipper singers croon. I almost laugh. The normalcy of it all feels like an insult.

I glance at Eric. He looks hollowed, as though Laelynn’s death has sucked out his essence. His face is pale, his chin scar raw. The wrinkles in his skin run like ravines. Laelynn was inside him, and now that she’s been ripped away, there’s only emptiness.

A weatherman crackles through the static: “A tornado warning is in place for the entire Twin Cities metro. Citizens are encouraged to shelter immediately in a windowless room or basement. Stay inside. Stay alert.”

Eric’s eyes meet mine.

“I have to go get her,” he says.

“What?”

“Laelynn. I can’t leave her out there.” His voice shakes as though it’s surviving on this thought alone.

“Eric, you heard what he said. It’s dangerous out there. We can get her in the morning.”

His eyes darken. “She may not be there tomorrow morning.”

“There’s a killer out there. It’s not safe.”

“I’m getting her. You watch the twins. If the storm gets worse, grab a mattress and take them into the basement.” He zips his raincoat with a dramatic tug that signals the end of the conversation.

I raise my hands. “Okay, it’s your choice.”

“Thank you.” He runs outside into the napalm sky. He walks past the storm-beaten chrysanthemums, hunched against the wind like it’s trying to push him back into the house. I watch until he vanishes into the blur. Part of me worries this is the last time I’ll see him.