Page 11 of A Curse On Black Lake
She smiles and grips my hand. It’s weakening by the second.
“I love you, flower. You won’t be alone for long. I’ll always be with you. They love you too,” she says.
She doesn’t have to clarify. She’s talking about my parents. If she can feel them, then she’s close. “We love you so much. Let yourself love too,” she says.
“Please don’t leave me yet, Grams, please.” I beg her. Fat tears roll down my cheeks, dripping onto our hands.
Her hand loosens in mine, and I know she’s gone. But I can’t move. I hold her hand as it slowly gets cold, and so does the reality that she has left me alone. My best friend and confidante.
My heart tugs and rips, leaving a new gaping, weeping hole. The thick noose of grief tightens around my soul.
The Spirits remain quiet, but a few whisper trying to make me feel better. I ignore them. I need to call the funeral home, but I can’t move.
There’s a small smile on her face, and I know she’s finally at peace. She’s home, reunited with all she’s lost in life.
And I’m alone.
Chapter five
Killian
“Ha!”Iyellatthe cattle trying to go six different ways. “Tex, round ‘em up!” I holler for the dog to do his job, herding the cattle together.I need a ranch hand.
Me and my three other dogs, finally get the group of cattle into their new pasture and I close the gate frustrated and tired. The weed that looks like a flower pops up at random times throughout the year, came up last night, and the cattle love it, so it was all I could do to get them to keep moving. The heat of the day is making me sweat through my shirt, and I’m behind schedule. I know I need help, but I don’t want to ask for it — especially from the citizens of Black Lake, sue me.
I take off my hat, swiping at the sweat on my brow, and set it back on before encouraging my horse, Daisy, into a canter. My mom named her when I got her, and I didn’t have the stomach to change it. It’s one of the last pieces I have of my mother.
The dogs bark towards the trees, and I frown. They’re gathered together, pointing at something. They aren’t hunting dogs, all mutts, but smart ones. They don’t do things like that, so I’m sure one of the cattle got stuck in the woods by the pasture.
Groaning, I lead Daisy over to the dogs and don’t see a steer. Hopping off, I follow them into the trees. They move towards an outcropping of rocks. One of the large boulders is smooth, as if a wave was frozen in time, and petrified.
Below the crest of the stone, a woman lays there, naked with closed eyes. I run to her, sliding my fingers to her neck, and I instantly know she’s not alive. Her body is colder than ice. I take a step back and call the dogs off.
Just what I need.
I study the woman carefully, noting the bruises around her ankles and wrists — she was bound. Her throat is almost totally purple. I don’t have to be a coroner to know she was likely choked to death. There doesn’t appear to be a speck of dirt on her skin, but there is something on her back that looks carved into the skin. I can’t see the whole marking, and I don’t want to touch her to inspect it. She’s posed with her knees together, at an angle, while one arm rests across her forehead as if she fainted. There’s a flower like the one that bloomed last night, and it’s dried, placed in the hand resting at her side, palm open.
But what sticks out to me the most is her hair. It’s not natural. It was dyed a blonde color, and her dark brown roots still show, as if someone didn’t know what they were doing. Maybe she’s not the one that dyed it, or she was growing it out. Aside from the odd detail, it appears washed, even blow-dried. So either she got her hair done right before she was killed or the killer did it. Regardless, she was meticulously cared for.
And the only question on my mind is why here, and why my property? I’m not a cop anymore, but I have seen this before, close to two years ago, but her hair wasn’t dyed.
I rub my face and take a deep breath before dialing the Sheriff’s Department.
He’s back.
“Did you touch the body, Killian?” Wyatt asks.
I sigh. “My first instinct was to check if she was alive.”
He hums and writes it in his notes.
“The only place you will find my fingerprints will be at her neck for her pulse,” I tell him.
“Have you had anyone on the property recently? Any vandalism?”
“Nope,” I tell him, not that I would call the cops. I would handle that on my own. It’s called dogs and a double-barrel shotgun.
“Have you seen this woman before?” he asks.
