Root Rot

Washed in the tint of a rosy sunset, the Richardsons’ house sat. Its modesty didn’t detract from its charm, a wood cabin dressed like a sinner dragging out their dusty Sunday best after burning their last bridge. New white paint over the peeling remains of the old coat, shoddy patchwork on a porch that groaned under the weight of a stare, ivy too prosperous to sell as a decorative decision. A failed effort of toil, settled back into neglect like sand sediment.

Much like the Richardsons themselves.

Heavy steps trudged upon old porch stairs, uncaring of the sharp snaps and cracks that cried out in rebuke of a job undone. Peter set down his mud-caked shovel with a callous shove, electing to watch it drag along the wall and crash to the ground instead of opening the door. Was he…going insane? Each day of fruitless endeavor dropped upon his head like the gavel of a despotic judge.

Half-heartedly stomping his boots to dislodge the dirt, he pushed his way into the nightmare inside with a weak swallow. The warmth of a well-used kitchen hit him, wrapping him in scents of fresh buttered bread, tender meat and assorted seasonings.

It made his stomach churn, but at least no one stood in his way to his room.

His mind took the opportunity to restart the same cycle of unanswered questions and implications, a rehearsal in restlessness. Two hands twisting him in different directions, unrelenting in their pursuit of his final drop.

Peter’s exhaustion weighed so heavily, it took him a moment to realize he’d walked into the dining room where everyone he wanted to avoid sat, watching him like he was the intruder.

The Richardsons had been a simple family at one point. Always a cup of sugar on hand for neighbors in a pinch, regular attendants to the Pinegrove Covenant Church, never brought anyone a fuss. They hadn’t deserved tragedy any more than a stag deserved to meet its end in the maw of a well-fed bear. God giveth and taketh…and giveth back?

Ellie, the eldest daughter, pushed through the tension to grasp this chance with both hands. “Pete!” She lifted a glass dish of mashed potatoes, painting on a smile. “I put in extra rosemary just for you!”

The youngest member, Lily, let out a small noise of disgust.

“Goodness,” Ellie set down the dish with a defeated clink after a long moment of little reaction, shooting Peter an ugly look from under her lashes. “I reckon this is our first feast in quite a while, we should say grace before it all goes cold, don’t you think?”

Her false cheer felt as congenial as sandpaper on an inflamed pustule.

Peter worked his jaw against words too poisonous for him to justify saying, even with his sister’s blatant jab. At least it wasn’t the icy bite of terror. He waved them off. “Go ahead. I need to clean up.”

Her shoulders stiffened, and she huffed impatiently. “Oh, Pete. Give it a rest, will you-” Ellie stopped when a hand rested on her clenched fist.

An achingly familiar hand belonging to an achingly familiar someone who shouldn’t be there.

“Elanor, please.” The soft whisper may as well be a scream amidst mounting pressure, sweet and somber. “Peter?”

The eldest child of Mary-Jane and Henry Richardson froze mid-step. Unthinkingly, his eyes sought the one who spoke, but he managed to stop at the thumb rubbing Ellie’s in comfort. “Hm?”

“You don’t have to join us, honey,” Mary-Jane continued. “But can you get a plate before you go? You’ve been out in the sun all day, you need to eat.”

Breathing became a herculean task all of a sudden.

“Please?”

His mother’s broken blue eyes looked at him from the face of someone he didn’t know. Sallow skin, age lines mapped in foreign patterns, brown hair cropped short. Ellie had tailored her mother’s clothes to fit better, but it didn’t hide the way her bones protruded in unnatural ways.

“Okay.” Peter meant to say ‘no’. His feet obeyed his words, every step closer making his head spin. He nearly fell onto the table, bracing himself roughly with a clatter.

“Oh!” Ellie jumped up, steadying him. “Pete, just—look at yourself! Outside for weeks, digging holes all over the yard!” She scolded, guiding her brother into a chair, pushing past his feeble resistance. Her hands came away with dirt and grime from his filthy clothes, for what? Peter’s reaction to their parents returning after three years was almost as baffling as their disappearance to begin with. She swiped a napkin and wet it, cleaning her troubled brother, determined to seize the moment instead of allowing him to run off again. “Mama and Papa are back, Pete. They’re back. Why are you acting like this?”

Staring at the two figures across from him, he could barely hear her at all.

Three years ago, Peter had stumbled upon a bloodied Henry Richardson weeping over his mother’s brutalized corpse, then avenged her death by killing her murderer right after. A son forced to bury his mother without the privilege of goodbye, setting her below the oak. Henry met the bottom of Witch Horn cliff with a prayer of damnation in seven directions.

So, how? How were they back?

Three weeks is too long for this all to be a dream. Peter had only just begun to accept that awful reality.

Ellie clicked her tongue when he didn’t respond, wiping away sweat streaks in the layer of filth from his forehead. She glanced at Mary-Jane, who gave her a weak smile. None except Lily had taken a bite of the plentiful banquet she’d prepared. Her father leaned over the table with a plate he’d put together for Peter, his grasp weak and shaking with effort. She grabbed it quickly. “Papa, you shouldn’t push yourself.”

He grunted. “Only way to get stronger.”

“You’re like this because pushing you is all those monsters did.” Ellie snapped, but then bit her lip, blinking back tears under the overwhelming press of it all. “Sorry, sorry. Just… just let me handle things for now. Please.”

She set the plate in front of Peter, bringing the cloth back to his face and recoiled at the sight of him.

Dark hatred, the kind she’d glimpsed in frightful depictions of folk art, twisted his features into a hideous mask. An unrecognizable creature sat amongst them, shivering like a cornered animal ready bring to everyone down with it.

Ellie backed away, clutching her dress.

“Pete?”

He heaved a breath, gritting his teeth hard enough to hear. “Who are you?”

They sat as silhouettes carved from wax, frozen, anemic and fake, fake, fake beneath the dim light. The imprint of his parents' memory, no different from the oily stains he’d spent hours scrubbing away so he could salvage a semblance of a future for his sisters. Peter never managed to clean the soapy red suds out of his mouth, nor his blue night shirt. Sins don’t burn away with a little gasoline.

He slammed his hands on the table and yelled. “Who are you?”

“No, who are you?” Ellie screamed back. “Why are you being like this, Pete? You’re scaring us!”

“Ellie, open your eyes for the love of Christ!” He pointed to the unmoving impostors on the other side, neither reacting in the slightest. “Does that look normal to you? They’re not even acting human, especially not our—” The last word lodged in his lungs, forcing him to cough.

“They were kidnapped.” She drew out each word, so maybe they could penetrate her ailing brother’s thick skull. “They were forced into slave-labor for three whole years. What don’t you get about that? Of course, they’re not going to come back swell and dandy!”

“That doesn’t-” He gripped his hair and growled.

Ellie swept away towards the kitchen.

“Peter,” Henry called and he may as well have shoved a hot poker down the boy’s throat with the way he burned. “Your mother and I were jumped on the road to Jensen’s market by more men than I could count. I wasn’t strong enough-”

“Shut up! Shut up!” Peter wheezed out, holding back the lurching swell of sickness.

Henry never called ‘Jenny’s place’, ‘Jensen’s market’. Only outsiders called it ‘Jensen’s market’.

Ellie marched back into the room and Peter already knew what she was going to do. As he groaned, she slapped down a national newspaper, big and bold letters right at the top:

Orland Gang Busted, Captives Get Justice!

“Read it! Read it over and over again, Pete!” Ellie drove her finger onto the paper. “Read it until your eyes bleed if you have to. Accept it!”

He slumped back into his seat, completely spent.

“You don’t have to work so hard anymore, honey,” A sweet voice glided across the table like a well-crafted ship. “You three suffered as much as we did these last couple of years. It’s going to take time to heal.” Mary-Jane said, grabbing Ellie’s hand again. In the wake of their explosive exchange, Ellie also fell into her chair and rested her head onto her mother’s chest, trying her best not to cry. There was no warmth in the embrace, but Ellie couldn’t expect much from skin and bones.

Peter and Ellie were children forced into adulthood far too soon. It’s little wonder that none of them coped well with the loss of their parents. A hell meant for the sordid, for the wicked, for detestably sin-inured. Truly, who on the earth can cast judgment upon an orphan, let alone three?

The eldest traced another, lesser headline with a grimy nail. He remembered reading a similar one amid the search for his mother and Henry Richardson. Where one demon falls, two rise up.

“You ever heard of skin walkers?” Peter asked, no real desire for an answer.

Neither of the figures responded in any way. Not even a blink.

A giggle brought everyone’s attention to the youngest member, Lily. She finished the last bite of her bread. “That sounds weird.”

Despite herself, Ellie smiled.

Peter tapped the paper twice, glancing at the thing wearing Henry’s face. The clamor of terror and confusion and impossibilities drained away like a crowd turning in for the night. He’d been a boy then, he was a man now.

Little Lily didn’t know what a skin walker was, but she rejoiced to have new parents. The Richardson house still suffered from years of overlooked tears and unheard prayers, of dismissals painted in colors of concern, but it was whole. At what cost had it come?

Well, that’s best left buried below the oak.