Around back there was more of the property scattered with bushes and trees that looked in as bad of shape as the house. The foundation of the cabin was surrounded by dead rose bushes—no roses, all thorns. Peaking out of the corner behind one bush was a broken window to the basement, only partially covered from the inside.
Chris tapped the wooden fence post in front of him to make sure there was no charge being conducted through the wood. Once he was satisfied that he wasn’t about to be a six foot two barbeque, he braced himself on the post to lean in and get a better look. He took his camera back out of his pocket and zoomed in to take a better picture. When he looked at the digital screen he was startled when a pair of small eyes were looking back at him through the bottom of the window. He dropped the camera just as he took the picture and it hit the carpet of leaves with a thud. Looking back at the window there was nothing there but pieces of glass. Chris took a step back and lowered himself to the ground and stretched his hand underneath the fence where his camera had bounced. He was able to reach the wrist strap and pull the camera towards him. The leaves were so matted down, the camera slid right along the surface. He quickly looked at the picture on the camera: there was nothing in the window. He convinced himself it was just the light playing off the shards of glass in the windowsill.
In the back, far corner of the cabin was a silo—or at least it looked like it could have been. It was a tall cylindrical building made out of wood with a flat top and covered in vines. At about twenty feet tall and fifteen feet in diameter, Chris had never seen a silo like this; it looked like the top half had been removed. It reminded Chris of an eighteenth century insane asylum hidden in the woods of Virginia. Chris’ father used to tell him and his brother: “it was used to house the people that were just too crazy to be in the hospital”. The brothers were so curious to see the inside that they would go there often to try and catch a glimpse of the inside, but they were always stopped by barbed wire wrapped tightly and haphazardly around the base, the doors and windows were boarded, but more of a deterrent than the wire and boarding were signs nailed all around that read: ‘Fines up to $50,000 and possible jail time to those who are caught trespassing’. Chris and his brother talked endlessly about pulling and prying their way through the wire to get inside and climb the spiraling staircase to the top where the only windows were. They imagined what the inside looked like; lobotomy tools left lying around, random splotches of un-cleaned blood and bone shards on the walls—for no reason at all—but when they thought of what their father would say when they got caught and fined, or worse: put in jail, their thought immediately dissipated into thin air.
This silo wasn’t boarded up at all and seemed to be in better condition than the house. Chris’ nerves had enough and he got all the pictures he needed; since he didn’t even know if this farm would have any potential for his story. It was time to go.
The digital clock on his dashboard told him that a little less than an hour had past; Katrina should be back at Mama’s any minute now. On his way back through the forest, he saw a man crouched down behind a tree. His heart jumped until he recognized the scruffy beard and furrowed brow. Ugh, Jerrid Chris thought. Must be out on the prowl for Zombies. Maybe he should get a real job. He was with another man that was about the same size and stature as Jerrid. He was crouched too, both staring at the car as it drove by. Chris knew he’d be grilled about his presence in the forest next time he ran in to Jerrid but for now Chris just waved at the men and kept driving.
6.
Mama’s apartment was empty when Chris let himself in. After searching the cupboards for a glass, he filled it with tap water and walked in to the living area. He was drawn to the fireplace where Mama had a few nick-knacks and small, framed pictures. Most of them were of what Chris assumed were Katrina’s parents, aunts and uncles. On the left corner of the self, squished between two stones were about eight dusty old books: classics like ‘White Fang’, ‘Robin Hood’, some Leo Tolstoy’s and Jane Austin, but what caught his eye was a photo album in between. The spine was almost the same worn brown canvas as the other books so it blended well, but up close and with no title it stuck out like a sore thumb.
Chris pulled it out and blew the dust off the top. He set down his water on the table and sat in one of the chairs, resting the album on his lap. The book was old and had been thumbed through many times; the photo sleeves were starting to rip at the seams and the pages were coming out. He very gently turned each page looking at the short photographic history of Katrina when she was no older than six years old. She looked so much happier when she was young and free. Her skin was golden from the times playing outdoors and her hair was either pulled back with a ribbon tied into a bow, or flowing over her shoulders in sun-streaked ringlets.
Her parents were well kept and nicely dressed. Katrina’s dad was easy to spot; he looked so similar to Katrina: they had same facial structure and chin dimple—something you always get from your father. He was a lot slimmer and taller than Chris had imagined. He was always pictured with a cigar; if it wasn’t in his mouth, it was in his hand. Katrina’s mother was always in the background watching Katrina and She always kept her hands busy with glass of iced-tea or a cigarette. Her choice of clothing was either a floral printed dress or a pair of slacks and loose fitting silk blouse. It was hard to see her resemblance to Katrina because she always wore large sunglasses. The few photos of Mama were of her playing with Katrina and another girl about the same age as Katrina. This other little girl caught Chris off guard: she looked identical to Katrina. They could have been twins, but Katrina never mentioned a sister. Chris pulled out a picture that had the little girl sitting on a man’s lap. The man had the same look as Katrina’s father but looked slightly more worn and alot stronger. On the back of the photo had the names ‘Clint’ and ‘Emily’ written on it. The little girl was Katrina’s cousin.
Once Chris had flipped through all the pages of the photo album, he reached over the armchair to put it back between the books on the shelf. His reach wasn’t long enough and the book fell to the ground landing on its spine. It opened up to the middle of the album. “Shit.” Chris bent down and noticed a folded piece of paper emerging from the back cover. He slowly picked up the book and turned to the back. The last page had been glued to the back creating a small pocket. He carefully pulled the paper out. It was an article from The Lexington Times:
Katrina Marie Jones and Emily Leah Jones
Fraternal twin girls born November 12, 1988
To the founders and owners of The Forest Hills
Logging Company.
Both weigh less than six pounds each and are
Expected to be in perfect health.
The family is overjoyed at these new additions as
James Jones says: “We couldn’t be more overjoyed with
Our two girls. My wife had an amazing birth and I'm so proud of her.
We just can’t wait to get them home.”
The Jones’ haven’t been available for comment since,
But the local Dr. says: “they’re all relaxing, recovering
And getting to know their new additions”.
No comments:
Post a Comment