Page 56 of Backwoods
Bats, of course. Only bats.
The creatures funneled out of the house and darted away into the trees. Nick picked up the shotgun, glanced across the yard toward Raven.
She looked scared, arms braced over her chest as she nibbled at her bottom lip. He had to teach her, and perhaps others, that there was nothing to be afraid of here. They had lived in this backward community for so long, bound here by strange magic, that all reasonable thought had left them. It didn’t have to be that way.
Gripping the shotgun, Nick edged through the doorway.
It was a one-room house, like his grandfather’s, and the interior was in worse condition than the exterior. The few pieces of furniture inside—a table, a dresser with a cracked mirror, a narrow bed—had been scorched by flames. Sections of the floor had collapsed inward. Several beams had fallen from the ceiling, too. Patches of gray light came inside through the damaged roof.
There was no one inside. The only possible resting place for the man was perhaps down in the dusty blackness underneath the ruptured floor, and the notion that anyone could live in such a place was absurd.
He didn’t hear any other burrowing creatures either.
Nevertheless, he ventured deeper into the home. As he moved, he was careful to avoid the weakened floorboards.
He noticed several items on the dresser that he hadn’t spotted from his initial glance around. A brown felt Stetson-style hat lay atop a black pea coat. Both pieces of clothing were in good condition, as if recently worn.
“Is anyone in here?” he said, sounding silly to himself. Of course no one was in here. But he looked around again, his gaze sharp.
He was alone. Obviously.
He placed the shotgun on the edge of the dresser. He picked up the hat by its wide brim.
His fingers tingled, as if soft static electricity coursed through the material. He traced his index finger along the creased edge, energy rippling through his skin.
Don’t touch it.
Dismissing the interior voice as ridiculous, Nick placed the hat on his head. He checked his profile in the mirror. The square-shaped glass was intact, not cracked as he had thought at first.
The hat was a perfect fit. It looked good on him. Most of all, itfeltgood, like putting on a favorite piece of clothing he’d owned for years.
He looked at the pea coat. It appeared to be his size. It was a warm day for April, but the evening promised to be cool. He would need the protection it offered.
He slipped on the coat. It was a perfect fit, too. He looked at himself in the mirror.
He had acquired a thick beard, as though he hadn’t shaved in weeks. A scar curved along the outer edge of his left eye, a remnant of a knife attack that he’d fended off from one of the field hands.
“They need discipline,” he whispered to himself. He smiled. “All of them, they lack it. I’m here to enforce the law.”
His leather bull whip lay across the dresser. He gripped the handle. It was pleasingly heavy in his hands, a weapon designed to dispense brutal, well-deserved punishment.
“I’ve got to teach them,” he said. “Pain is their friend.”
A rifle cracked, and the mirror shattered, shards flying. Startled, Nick dropped the whip, spun around.
Raven was in the doorway, aiming the rifle at him.
“Take off the hat,” she said, her voice like iron. “Or, I swear to God, I’ll shoot you.”
Nick blinked. He felt as if he had dozed off and had awakened to find this girl pointing the gun at him for no reason.
“I don’t . . . I don’t know what happened,” he said. He touched the hat on his head and had no recollection of putting it on. He pulled it off and let it drop to the floor.
“The coat, too,” Raven said.
He peeled off the coat—why he had put that on in the first place was a mystery to him—and let it sink to the floorboards.
Looking around as if something might leap from the shadows to attack her, Raven came inside.
