“We’re getting out of here and calling the cops,” Chris said.
“I felt like someone was listening behind the door,” Hope said.
“Where does it go?” Chris said.
“To the house. His house. It runs under the woods. There used to be a hotel here. The tunnel connected the hotel laundry and the main building. It burned. The Wilson Meat Packing people bought the land on this end. The house was built where the hotel laundry used to be.”
Chris said, “Pretty long damned tunnel.”
“I’ve seen enough, let’s go.”
They made their way to the stairs and climbed back up. A few times Chris swore he heard someone following. They sounded like they were hanging back, just enough to tail Chris and Hope, but not enough to be heard. “I think someone’s following.”
“I hear it too. Go faster.”
They reached the chute and climbed back inside. When they were outside, Chris took a deep breath, relishing the fresh air.
Both Hope and Chris broke into a jog and didn’t look back until the slaughterhouse was far behind.
1968 – Tom Harwell
Tom Harwell looked up at the monster. The paint, once white, had gone gray, and the gardens were turning brown. He hadn’t asked for this house, but it had been in the family for generations, and now it was his. Had been for the past five years.
Truth was, it drained him. The acres of land took days to mow. Something always needed painting. The goddamned place had six bathrooms, and two of them had leaking pipes.
He hoped to forget about the monster for the day. The town was having a picnic to cap off a week-long celebration of its 150-year anniversary. There’d been a carnival earlier in the week, which he and the girls had missed, much to the dismay of four young ladies. He’d been working at the slaughterhouse during the carnival, slicing the horns off of steers. Beat gutting them. He hated that job.
Mary, his oldest, had watched the younger ones while he was at work. Their mother had run off last year with some hippie freak named Sloan, claimed he was starting a revolution.
So now, he had to fulfill the promise of attending the picnic. He waited outside in a white cotton dress shirt and khakis. Sleeves rolled up. Freshly shaved. “Girls!”
Mary, eighteen, came down the steps first. Followed by Sara and Emily, fourteen and sixteen. Last out the door was Heidi, his nine-year-old. He allowed himself a smile; they kept him going. The money he’d inherited from his parents was getting thin, and the slaughterhouse had cut overtime. They’d been subsisting on a lot of peanut butter sandwiches supplemented by boxed mac and cheese. Mary would be getting a job come summer, working as a cashier at Tops, and part of that would help pay the bills. Maybe fix some of those leaky pipes.
The girls piled into the wagon and he got behind the wheel.
“Dad, Mary hit me,” Sara said. “Whacked me with a hair brush.”
“That’s enough.”
Mary, tall and fair, like her mother, turned and gave Sara a death stare. “She took my journal.”
“Any more of this and we stay home,” Tom said. “Understood?”
Four voices said yes in unison.
He pulled down the long driveway. It would be the last time he would see all four of his daughters alive.
Mary Harwell had broken off from her sisters, who were currently raiding the dessert table at the town picnic. Volunteers had brought trays of brownies, cookies, and pies, which were currently laid out on folding tables under the picnic shelter. Bob Voss, one of the town selectmen, was grilling dogs over charcoal. Mary wasn’t hungry, not after she’d seen Dean Cowell in his uniform. He was shipping out to Vietnam in a few weeks.
He was a Marine. Handsome as any movie star. Those two facts combined had made her stomach a nervous coil of worms.
Dean was currently talking to Reverend White, whose face right now was roughly the color of a grape tomato. For an early May Saturday, it was hot, pushing eighty already. The good reverend was sweating like a whore in church, as her dad would say.
Dean broke away from the reverend and Mary took this as her opportunity. She tossed her hair a little, smoothed her dress, and made her way over to Dean.
“I like your uniform,” Mary said.
He turned and smiled. His hair was cut close, regulation style. There were some razor bumps on his scalp, but nothing could take away from how handsome he was. He smiled at Mary and she nearly turned into a puddle.
“Hey Mary, thanks. I like your dress.”
“It’s nothing fancy.”
“Hot, isn’t it?” he said.
“I’m kind of sweaty,” she said, instantly realizing how dumb that sounded. “That sounded stupid.”
“You couldn’t possibly sound stupid. Don’t worry, I’m way sweatier in this uniform,” he said and smiled again.
She liked him for putting her at ease. Some boys would’ve made a crude joke about B.O. “What’s the Marines like?”
“Lots of push-ups and running. The DIs scream. It’s hot as hell at Parris Island.”
“Well be careful over there,” she said.
“I will. You wanna get some lemonade with me?” Dean said.
She did. “Sounds good.”
As they made their way over to the picnic shelter, she realized her sisters were not there. She didn’t pay it much thought. She was focused on Dean. They were probably running down one of the trails in the town park, chasing each other. If they messed up their good clothes, Dad was going to kill them.
She glanced over and saw Dad leaning against a tree in the shade. He was sipping a drink. He didn’t talk a whole lot these days, not since their mom had run off. As two church ladies in flowered dresses passed, Dad managed a nod. One of them was
