Tracks Beneath the Clay, page 7
Her eyes followed the trim up to the second story. A covered deck jutted from the upper floor, the kind that might once have caught a breeze on sweltering Georgia nights. Its roof dipped at the center like a spine too long burdened, and a single iron chair sat facing the orchard in the distance. The railing was mismatched, some pieces ornate, others clearly replaced with scrap wood in a pinch.
The house looked aware, as if the years of silence had turned it into a patient witness, studying her approach with an unblinking eye. Like it remembered everything and wasn’t sure yet whether to let her in or keep its secrets buried.
Janice stepped out of the car, the summer air pressing in on her as cicadas buzzed in the trees beyond. The orchard behind the house was wild now, moss-covered pecan trees stretching their arthritic limbs like old men reaching for the past. She could almost picture someone, Natalie maybe, or the girl, Lucy, she had only heard of in fragments, standing barefoot at the edge of it all, gazing back at this very house with secrets still tucked behind the shutters.
She shaded her eyes against the sun and took a slow breath. “Well,” she murmured, “guess this is home for a while.”
She pulled out her phone and hit call. Her mother picked up after the second ring.
“You there yet?” Ruth asked, her voice edged with fatigue but steady.
“Just pulled up,” Janice said, eyes still fixed on the weathered clapboards and the sagging porch. “It looks… older than I expected. You didn’t tell me it looked like something out of a Faulkner novel.”
Ruth gave a dry laugh. “Don’t you go scaring yourself with old stories. That house has stood longer than most people in this family. Good bones. Just needs a little love.”
“Mom, it needs more than love,” Janice replied. She let her gaze wander to the upstairs balcony where a single chair faced the orchard. “It needs paint, a roof, maybe a miracle.”
“Don’t fuss. You’ve got the card. Just do what you can. Nothing fancy, just enough to make it livable again. You’ll see, it’ll feel different once you’re inside.”
Janice hesitated, pressing her lips together. “It feels… like it’s lonely.”
Her mother grew quiet for a moment. Then came the clink of ice in a glass. “That house has always waited for someone to tend to it. Maybe it’s your turn.”
Janice swallowed, unsure if that was meant to reassure her or not. “Alright. I’ll call you later with pictures.”
“Good girl. Now go on and get inside before you melt in that Georgia sun.”
“Love you, Mom.”
“Love you too, Janice.”
She hung up, slipped the phone into her pocket, and finally mounted the leaning stairs. The foyer smelled of dust and old cedar, the kind of scent that clings to wood after generations.
Her grandmother’s trinkets and photos were still placed on almost every flat surface. She picked one up and rubbed the glass clean, revealing a group of people in black and white on the porch in rockers, laughing at a joke she would never know. It warmed her to see laughter and history right where she stood. She thought of her mother running across these very floors in diapers.
She placed her keys on the kitchen counter and wandered through the rooms, taking stock the way her mother had told her to. The kitchen held little beyond a dented metal table, its surface pocked with rust, and a pair of mismatched chairs pushed against the wall. The old refrigerator, an off-olive green color, surprised her by humming to life when she tugged its stainless steel handle. Cold air drifted out, and she smiled then quickly wrinkled her nose. “Better than I thought, but it needs a serious cleaning before anything can go in there.” She waived her hand in front of her face
The front parlor offered a sagging sofa with sun-bleached floral fabric. Dust puffed from the cushions when she pressed a hand to it, and she sneezed into her arm. The flooring looked original, though water damage near the sink had warped a few boards. The back door opened onto a covered porch that seemed to connect the house and orchard seamlessly. She noticed the lock was flimsy, adding it to her growing mental list.
Toward the rear of the first floor, she found a large bedroom with a view of the orchard and a fashionable walk-in closet. A small bed with a delicate spiral frame sat under rose-patterned wallpaper. She imagined her grandmother’s last days here. Instead of frightening her, the thought filled her with comfort.
Upstairs, the rooms were bare except for a toppled chair in one corner and a cracked dresser missing its mirror. She ran her fingers along the chipped wood, then opened a window with a groan, letting in a thin slice of sunlight. Another bathroom greeted her in the hall, unexpectedly updated, tiled, and functional. She decided this would be her bedroom and set to work, sweeping and wiping until the air smelled less of cedar and more of effort. Carrying up her suitcase, bedding––and dragging her mattress, took the better part of the afternoon. By the time she returned downstairs, her shirt clung with sweat, and her throat was raw from dust.
As she reached the curve of the staircase, her eyes caught a small cupboard tucked beneath it. The knob was tarnished with age. She knelt and tugged, coughing as dust bloomed into her face. Inside, the cedar-lined space was shallow. Too shallow.
She tapped along the back wall. Hollow. Her fingers brushed a groove at one edge. She hesitated. “Here goes nothing.” She pulled, and the panel slid forward reluctantly, revealing darkness beyond.
She switched on her phone’s flashlight and leaned in. A shiver crossed her shoulders, but she reached inside anyway. Her hand closed on a small wooden box, no bigger than a loaf of bread, tied with a frayed leather cord.
At the kitchen table, she untied the cord and lifted the lid. Inside lay an embroidered cloth, faded but soft, stitched with roses around a single ivory button. She traced the threads, her chest tightening as though the cloth itself carried memory. Beneath it was a folded envelope. The script was looping and deliberate: To Meredith. In case I do not return.
Her breath caught. She set it aside, unable to open it yet.
Below the envelope were yellowed newspaper clippings.
Local Girl Missing After Church Picnic.
Third Disappearance Rocks County. No Leads.
Sheriff Urges Caution: Curfew in Place After Fourth Incident.
Her stomach turned. Different names, different years, but the same dark undertone. At the bottom of the box was a hand-drawn map, the orchard circled, an arrow pointing to the root cellar with the note: where the land splits.
Janice held the page up to the window, turning to match the angles to the orchard outside. For just a moment, it seemed the trees leaned closer, shadows stretching toward the house.
“Get a grip, Janice,” she muttered.
But the feeling of being watched stayed with her.
She slid the box back into its hiding place and brushed dust from her hands. “Enough for tonight.”
Upstairs, she washed and crawled into bed, but her mind would not rest. Every creak of the farmhouse set her on edge. She pulled the blanket beneath her chin, eyes fixed on the dark doorway, until at last, she drifted into uneasy sleep.
And when she dreamed, the orchard was searching. Branches stretched down, heavy with moss and shadow, brushing against the windows as if searching for a way inside. Faces seemed to form in the bark, eyes hollow and unblinking, mouths open in soundless cries. Whispers tangled in the leaves, low and urgent, like prayers spoken too fast to follow. A woman’s voice wept beyond the trees, mournful and low, then broke into laughter sharp as breaking glass. She strained to see her, but the sound scattered like leaves in the wind.
Janice woke with a start, her heart pounding. For a moment, she swore the orchard pressed against the very walls of the house, crowding closer, leaning in to learn more.
“It’s just a dream,” she whispered into the dark.
But the unease lingered, thick as the night air.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
◇◇THE THREAD
1859, Georgia
Autumn
The train wheels screeched against the rails as the cars began to slow, and the scent of red clay and honeysuckle drifted through the cracked window. Natalie pressed her forehead to the glass. Georgia was nothing like New York. The air hung heavy with heat, thick as wool and just as irritating to the skin. Not even the strongest breeze seemed to push it away.
Her stomach fluttered with nerves. For weeks, she had told herself she was ready—ready to see the land her mother had spoken of with both longing and disdain, ready to prove she was more than a headstrong girl who could not hold her tongue. But as the platform came into view, lined with strangers and expectant faces, a hollow ache rose in her chest. What if she did not belong here? What if all her ideals, all her books, all her talk meant nothing in this place?
Excitement and dread twisted together, pulling her tight from within. She wanted to rush forward, to set her feet on this strange new soil, and yet she wished the train would keep rolling, carrying her back to everything familiar.
The cars lurched to a halt. She drew in a breath and sat up straighter. No turning back now.
Walt helped Kathleen down the steps first, then offered Natalie a hand next. As he steadied her, he leaned close.
“Remember what you carry,” he whispered.
Natalie blinked, startled by the weight in his tone. “The letters?”
He gave the faintest nod. “They’ve gone to the right people. But this,” he tapped the side of her bag gently, “this is about more than paper. You’ll understand soon.”
Her heart skipped. She snatched her hand back, cheeks flushing. “Thank you,” she said stiffly.
Kathleen turned just in time to miss the exchange. She brushed a curl behind her ear and smiled warmly. “Welcome home, Natalie. Social life down here is a whirlwind; you’ll see. I expect to see you again soon.” She gave a little giggle, the kind that drew people in without effort.
Natalie forced a smile. “I’ll look forward to it.”
As they parted ways, Walt appeared beside her one last time. “Be mindful of whom you trust here. Not everyone wears their loyalties on their sleeves.”
She straightened, meeting his eyes. “I understand.”
“Atlanta’s a web, Miss Natalie,” he said, the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Best to move through it like a thread. Quiet. Careful. Strong.”
Then, with a tip of his hat, he was gone into the crowd.
A voice called her name from the edge of the platform. First a man’s, then a boy’s. “Natalie?”
She turned to find two figures approaching. One older, dressed sharply in a navy suit with round spectacles perched on his nose. The other, a lanky boy with a mop of light brown hair and an eager smile.
“I’m your Uncle William,” the man said, extending his hand. “And this here is your cousin Henry.”
Natalie smiled politely as she shook their hands. “It’s very nice to meet you both.”
William snapped his fingers. “Isaac! Get her bags, come on now.”
From around the carriage stepped a young man about Natalie’s age, barefoot, dressed in patched work clothes. His head was shaved close, his eyes steady and curious. He paused when their gazes met. For a moment, she felt an unspoken connection, as if something passed between them. Then it was gone.
“No, thank you, Uncle,” she said quickly. “I’ve got it.”
William waved her off with a firm hand. “Isaac is here for just that.”
Reluctantly, Natalie passed her bag over. “Thank you, Isaac,” she said softly.
He gave her the briefest smile, but it disappeared the moment he turned toward William. His face went blank, his posture folding inward. The change unsettled her.
“You must be tired,” William said, steering her away from the awkwardness.
“I am,” she admitted. “It was a long ride.”
“Your aunt has a room prepared. You can rest until dinner.”
Natalie nodded. Henry skipped at her side as they walked toward the carriage. He was full of questions.
“Do you really get snow so deep it covers fences?” he asked, eyes wide.
Natalie smiled faintly. “Sometimes. And sometimes it’s so heavy the roofs nearly cave in.”
Henry whistled. “I’d rather pick cotton in the sun than shovel that.”
Natalie’s smile faded. “You don’t choose it. You just live in it. Same as here.”
Henry tilted his head, confused, but William cleared his throat, cutting the conversation short. “Tell me about your mother and father, Natalie. How are they holding up with the business expanding?”
She answered politely, but her mind stayed with Isaac and the weight of Walt’s warning.
The carriage rattled along the dusty road. Henry pointed out the homesteads as they passed.
“That’s the Walshes’. They grow tobacco and sugar.”
“And over there, the Lancasters’. Cotton. They tried indigo last year; total disaster.” He laughed at his own joke, and William chuckled. Natalie forced a small smile, but the words left a sour taste. Her eyes strayed instead to the endless rows of bent laborers working the fields.
“Are those all enslaved folks?” she asked quietly. “Or are some of them employed?”
Henry frowned, uncertain. William’s jaw tightened. “In the South, Natalie, things are different.”
Natalie opened her mouth to protest, but William cut in smoothly. “Tell me, what was it like on the journey? Did you make any friends?”
The question shut down her protest. She leaned back, giving polite answers while her thoughts churned elsewhere.
The road narrowed, shadowed by trees draped in gray moss. The air cooled, but the silence was heavier than the heat. No birds sang. No insects hummed. Only the creak of carriage wheels and the clip of hooves against stone.
Natalie sat straighter, her reticule tight in her grip. She kept her expression carefully composed, answering William’s questions and smiling faintly at Henry’s chatter. Outwardly, she must have looked calm, even curious. But inside, her thoughts twisted restlessly. She would not let them see her nerves, not here, not yet.
Something in the stillness felt alive, as if the land itself were alive.
Journal Entry-
Mer, you would not believe the ground here. The clay is red, the kind of red that clings and stains like dried blood. Even the honeysuckle, sweet at first, leaves something bitter in the air.
I will admit this to you and no one else: when the train slowed and I saw the families waiting, I felt my chest seize. For weeks, I have been so bold in my letters, telling you I was ready, telling myself I was brave. But the truth? I was afraid. Afraid I would not belong. Afraid I was stepping into a world that would swallow me whole before I even understood its rules.
It is a strange thing, Mer, to want something so fiercely and dread it in the same breath. I wanted to see this land, to test myself against it. But I also wanted to turn the train around and go home, back to our school steps, back to everything I knew. My heart twisted both ways at once.
Walt told me to move like a thread. Quiet. Careful. Strong. I do not know why, but it keeps replaying in my head. Kathleen, his wife, tried to make things light. She hugged me like family, but Walt, he looked at me as if he knew more than he was willing to say.
Uncle William is every bit the gentleman, maybe too much so. He asked about Mother and Father, about the store, but when I asked about the fields, he said only, “In the South, things are different.” Different. That was his only answer.
Henry pointed out the farms with such pride. “That is the Walshes; that is the Lancasters.” When I asked if the workers were free, Henry just stared at me, not knowing what to say.
And then there was Isaac. He carried my bag without a word, but when our eyes met, it startled me. He looked at me directly, steady, alive. Then William barked his name, and it was like watching a door slam shut inside him. I do not know why, but I cannot stop thinking about that look.
The ride grew quiet beneath the trees. Moss hung down like curtains, gray and heavy, and not a bird sang. It was silence thick enough to choke. Mer, it felt like the land was waiting for something. Or maybe waiting for me.
Walt was right. This is more than letters, more than family ties. Something here is older than all of us, and I intend to understand it. He said to move like a thread. Quiet. Careful. Strong.
I will. I will be the thread.
PART TWO
HAUNTINGS AND BURDENS:
“Secrets fester beneath the clay, and what is buried does not stay silent forever.”
“What the dead remember binds the living. What the living forget binds them even more.”
— Traditional Southern saying
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
⚘ ROOTS AND RUINS
The light filtered in through the warped slats of the blinds, catching dust motes that swirled in lazy spirals above her head. Janice lay still, watching them drift like tiny planets suspended in a universe of their own. The old house seemed to breathe with her, every timber expanding and groaning in its own rhythm. She had slept more soundly than she expected, though not without interruption. At least three times, she swore she heard footsteps outside her door, the faint scuff of movement. At other times, she felt as if unseen eyes were on her. It creeped her out enough that she had wedged kitchen chairs beneath both the front and back door handles. Just in case.
Now the morning air was cool, but she could already feel the press of humidity promising a sweltering day ahead. She swung her legs over the side of the mattress, her bare feet landing against the worn wood floor with a thump. Her coin necklace, which had slipped off during the night, lay tucked into the sheet. She slipped it back over her head and adjusted it against her collarbone.
Her stomach rumbled, a low reminder that she had not eaten anything proper since yesterday.
