Page 40 of Backwoods
Then she found a rock near his, eased onto it, and started talking.
25
Amiya nodded off. She hadn’t planned to slip into unconsciousness, but the fear gnawing at her had worn her out, and before she realized it, she had slumped over in the chair and fallen asleep.
She had a disturbing dream. She was still in the decrepit plantation house. She was in one of the musty bedrooms, and her arms were stretched above her and chained at the wrists while she hung from a wooden beam. Completely nude, she shivered as a cold draft gusted through a broken window.
Then a man appeared in the room, in the shifty nature of dreams. He looked as if he had risen from a grave. Clumps of dirt crumbled from his shoes, his eye sockets were empty, and his gray face was like a fright mask. He lumbered toward her and pawed her breasts with his ice-cold hands, and a raw, pink tongue poked from between his dead lips and rotted teeth.
“I am well pleased,” he said. “Y’all done good, girls . . .”
Amiya snapped awake with a short cry.
She had tipped over in the chair and fallen asleep while lying against one of its upholstered arms. Blinking, she sat up. Herhead throbbed, and she was still wearing the cold shackles on her wrists and ankles.
Grayish light sifted into the room. She was unsure how long she had been asleep, but it was still daytime.
Still time, she thought.
Footsteps creaked against the floor, coming from outside the room.
She tensed, all of her drowsiness washing away in an instant. She glanced around the room for a weapon, remembered she had already looked and found nothing at all.
The only weapon she would possess was her own mind. She would have to keep her composure and use her brain to figure out a way to gain the upper hand against these disturbed people.
Someone unlocked the door. It swung open on noisy hinges.
A tall, husky Black woman with a light beige complexion stepped inside. Amiya guessed she was in her mid-fifties, but it was difficult to be sure. She wore a faded green housedress and scuffed, flat-soled black shoes. Her auburn hair was pinned up in a bun and emphasized the severity of her sharp-edged features.
She had eyes the color of faded pennies. With a slow, measuring gaze, she assessed Amiya.
Without any introduction, Amiya realized that this was Miss Lula.
“Betty was right about you,” the woman said and gave a brief, satisfied nod. She sounded like a stern schoolteacher, someone who would send you to detention for a minor infraction. “A lady like you has no place outside. You got a name?”
“Amiya.” She swallowed. “Amiya Turner.”
“I’m Miss Lula. I’m in charge of the house.” Miss Lula shuffled toward her, favoring her right leg. She fished a set of keys out of her pocket. “Betty says you’re a little pistol.”
“I don’t want to be here,” Amiya said. She had to fight to hold back a cry. “I want to go home.”
“I won’t tolerate disobedience,” Miss Lula said in a tone that brooked no argument. “Stand up.”
Amiya rose, shakily. She almost toppled over, had to lean against the chair to support herself.
Miss Lula knelt and inserted one of her keys in the shackles on Amiya’s ankles. As she bent over, Amiya saw the back of her neck and recognized the faded “W” branded on her flesh.
How long has she been here? Years? Why don’t any of these people leave?
Miss Lula disengaged the restraints on both of her ankles, rose, and unlocked the ones on Amiya’s wrists, too.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Amiya said, and massaged her chafed skin.
Something that looked like approval glinted in Miss Lula’s gaze.
“Keep that up, and you’ll do fine here, lady,” Miss Lula said. “Let’s go get you a bath and some appropriate attire.”
As desperate as she was to get out of there, the idea of taking a bath, washing away the grime and dried sweat that filmed her skin from the day’s accumulated horrors, seemed like an invitation to go to a spa.
