Page 38 of The Gallagher Place
I know what you did to Dave, what you did to Tom. You can’t kill us all …
Greed is a sin.
Leave this house, or I’ll tell what happened to Nora.
A fourth letter was mailed to the Gray House in June.
They’re going to find me. —Nora.
Marlowe was upstate at the time, which meant that Frank or Glory had tucked this envelope away without a word. It might have been meant for her. Ariel didn’t include the recipient line or envelope for that one.
Had there been tension in the air one week ago, when the family was gathered for Thanksgiving? All Marlowe could remember was being overwhelmed by the shrieks of the children and the endless revolutions around the kitchen by Stephanie, Constance, and Glory.
What was Harmon keeping in that tent? A can of gasoline? A box of matches? Marlowe paced across her bedroom floor, her heart slamming into her chest. She threw the poisonous threats aside, cursing Ariel for handing them over without any more context.
Ben’s decision to take another round of exterior photos suddenly made sense. He was trying to locate the door someone could have slipped out of to get at Harmon in that field. He had threatened to hurt the children, and he had put on a good front of possessing vital information. This went beyond what Henry classified as the detectives “covering their bases.”
Marlowe’s head spun as she turned back to her desk. The journal entries. Ariel had given them to her for a reason. She couldn’t ignore them.
Marlowe sat down and began to read.
Most entries were short and consisted of fragmented sentences.
Hot day. Fields need rain.
Walked out to the Flats, thought of Father.
Hottest day of the year so far.
Marlowe stiffened when an entry dated from July mentioned her family.
Fisher boys helped unload the hay. Older one tried to hand back the cash I gave him. It made me angry, as if I need charity. We have our land. My land. But he’s just a boy. I can be patient with him. The girls messed around in the barn while we worked, making up some dance.
Sometimes I hear a strange singing, when I’m atop the Rise or passing the barn. No words I can make out, just soft fragments of melody.Wind in the leaves, some might say, but I don’t think so. Mother always said witches hum, while they spin their curses.
Marlowe looked up, staring hard at the wall. Could that have been them? She and Nora had made up a game while walking through the woods, where one of them came up with lyrics and a melody and the other had to write another verse with a shared theme—typically some girly love song.
Dave must have known it was them. Then again, when they branded the cows with paint, Tom should have realized the most obvious culprits, yet he had told her father it looked like Wiccan rituals. They had laughed over that, Marlowe remembered.
She continued tracing her finger down the inked lines. The August pages were dense with his familiar complaints—missing cow leads, misplaced tools, the burdensome heat. There was a suggestion that someone might have been toying with him, but he’d always resort to blaming his aging mind. Then he got more pointed:
Frank Fisher wants to buy. He’d do it tomorrow; I get the feeling. Told Tom as much, and mentioned it again to me today. When I go, he can have it. I don’t care, and I doubt it’ll bring him peace. Those boys of his are trouble. Born too lucky to ever be careful. And the daughter—she’s sheltered and timid, but she’ll put them through hell one day, I’d wager. Innocence like that ends badly. As for her friend, Leroy used to call her a changeling. I used to think it was a joke, but maybe Leroy saw more than I ever did.
He hadn’t even called Marlowe by her name. To him, she had been just another sheltered girl, destined for corruption, her fate so familiar, he was almost bored by it. And he said Nora was achangeling. A fae child swapped at birth, forced upon unsuspecting parents. Marlowe had told Ariel people out here still believed in the old myths, but seeing it in Dave’s own hand was different. MaybeHarmon had seen this as proof, a justification for whatever he’d planned to do. And Frank had wanted the land; that much was clear.
She flipped the page to find that Dave’s thoughts had turned inward toward the end of the summer.
I sometimes wonder what the point is. The corn is high as it’s ever been, the cows are healthy, but what’s it all for? I’ll be 53 this spring, but I feel ancient. My parents are gone. My brothers are gone. A blue heron stopped at the river this afternoon. There’s only me to see it.
Then, in September:
I heard those voices again, coming from the loft. I tried to ignore them, but they kept coming—clear as a bell. And then they said my name. I’ve heard them over the years, but now they’re calling me, whatever they are.
Marlowe’s blood ran cold. All those afternoons lying on their stomachs in the loft, she and Nora stifling giggles. Dave had never reacted besides a momentary stiffening of his shoulders, a sidelong glance. They’d assumed he hadn’t noticed. But that was all wrong.
This place is haunted. This morning, I found the milk cans moved. All stacked on the back table. And I swear, last week, I latched the gate. Something unhooked it. Something is out there, trying to tell me something.
How many times had they moved those milk cans? Had Nora done things on her own when Marlowe was in the city? Or had Dave started seeing things that weren’t there? She flipped to the entry she knew was coming: the October night she and Nora had snuck out after homecoming.
