Tracks Beneath the Clay, page 13
Matty: On my way.
The minutes crawled. Every board in the house creaked, every shadow seemed to swell. Janice gripped the 2x4 she used to brace the back door, holding it like a bat, her knuckles white.
Then footsteps pounded up the front porch. Janice raised the board, ready to swing.
“Janice!”
The voice broke through the night. Blonde hair caught the porch light as Matty froze at the sight of the weapon.
“Shoot!” she yelped, hands flying up.
Janice dropped the board with a clatter, her knees giving out in relief. “Oh my God, I almost hit you.” She pulled Matty close, both of them trembling.
“Are you okay?” Matty asked, her breath unsteady.
“Yes,” Janice whispered, though her voice shook. She turned back toward the empty window.
Inside, Janice flicked every switch she could find until the house glowed. The brightness was overwhelming, but it felt safer than the dark.
Matty busied herself in the kitchen, pulling tea from her bag as though she had known she would need it. Her voice was quiet but steady. “You made it worse, you know.”
Janice frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Turning the light off,” Matty said. “My grandma always told me you never give the dark all the power. You think it hides you, but it doesn’t. It invites them in.”
The words landed heavy.
Matty placed a steaming mug in Janice’s hands and looked her square in the eye. “She made me promise three things, and now you need to promise them too. Never let the house go completely dark. Never answer if you hear your name after sundown. And never whistle at night.”
Janice swallowed hard. “Why not whistle?”
Matty’s gaze slid to the orchard. Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “Because you don’t know what you’re calling.”
Janice’s stomach tightened. She clutched the mug as if it were the only warmth left in the world.
“I can’t stay here alone tonight,” she admitted softly.
“You’re not,” Matty said quickly. She pulled a chair into the living room, curled up with a blanket, and settled in. “You’ve got me. I’ll stay until you feel better.”
Relief rushed through Janice. She lay on the couch, watching Matty drift into a doze, her blonde hair falling loose across her shoulders.
Every lamp in the house blazed, and still, Janice felt vulnerable. The farmhouse glowed like a beacon in the night, exposed from every window. She rolled onto her side, watching Matty breathe softly, grateful she was not alone.
Even so, unease coiled in her stomach. Even with the house lit like day, she could not shake the sense that the night outside was bidding it, patient, just beyond the glass.
Sleep came slowly, and when it did, it was shallow, haunted by the memory of red eyes blinking in the dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
◇◇ BE READY
1861, Georgia
Summer
Natalie had begun to find a place for herself in the household. She spent her afternoons in the study with Uncle William, her pencil moving quickly across the pages of his ledgers. Her years of keeping her father’s shop accounts had made her nimble with figures, and William praised her skills with open delight. Natalie only smiled politely and let him think she was gifted. Better he believe she had a talent than know how many long nights she had spent over her father’s books back home.
That afternoon, she was bent over the ledger on the couch, the scent of old paper and ink in the air, when a sharp knock broke their quiet. She began to rise, but William lifted a hand.
“Stay,” he said with a reassuring smile. “It’s a friend stopping by. It won’t take but a moment.”
The door opened, and a tall figure strode in, still in his riding boots, jacket dusty from the road. Natalie’s heart lurched. Walt.
Her stomach knotted so tightly it felt as though she had swallowed a stone. Heat rushed up her neck. She couldn’t tell if it was fear, anticipation, or guilt. Would he betray her and speak of the letters? Did he mean to expose her in front of Uncle William? She forced herself to keep her eyes on the book, though her hand trembled on the page.
Walt’s gaze found hers. For the briefest moment, he nodded as if greeting an acquaintance. Then he turned smoothly to William, taking his hand with practiced ease.
“Should I…?” Walt asked, his eyes flicking back toward Natalie.
“No need,” William said, his tone genial. “That’s my niece.”
Walt’s eyes lingered longer this time. Natalie held her spine straight and lowered her gaze to the figures before her, as though the pages demanded her attention. Inside, her heart pounded so loudly she was certain both men could hear it.
William poured a drink and gestured to the chairs, but Walt shook his head. “Not here for pleasure, I’m afraid. The Senate isn’t budging. Pressure’s mounting from all sides. They’re speaking openly now of putting an end to our way of life.”
William’s face hardened. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying war is coming,” Walt replied. His voice was even, but there was an edge of steel beneath it. “And if the South means to win, it will not be won with words.”
A sharp gasp escaped Natalie before she could stop herself. Both men turned. Her cheeks burned. She rose quickly, bowing her head.
“My apologies. If I may be excused…”
“No.” Walt’s interruption was soft, yet commanding. “What needed saying has been said. I’ll see myself out.”
He crossed the room, boots striking the floorboards in deliberate steps. As he passed her chair, his back turned toward Uncle William, his hand reached for hers. To anyone watching, it was no more than a courteous farewell. But when his fingers closed around hers, she felt the firm press of something folded into her palm. His hand lingered just long enough for her to see the flicker of a wink, the faintest spark in his eyes that said everything. Keep it hidden.
“Pleasure meetin’ you, miss.”
Her stomach twisted tighter. She nodded almost imperceptibly, slipping the folded scrap into her pocket. Her pulse hammered. She knew without reading it that it would change everything.
The door shut behind him, leaving a silence as heavy as stone. She turned and found William watching her. His expression was tired, older somehow, the weight of unspoken thoughts hanging between them.
“Please, Natalie,” he said quietly. “Say nothing of this. Let me speak to the family first.”
She forced a small nod, murmured something about resting, and gathered her things.
In her room, she closed the door and perched on the edge of the bed. Her fingers shook as she drew the note from her pocket. She unfolded it carefully.
Your letters were mailed. Be ready. You are needed by the recipients. Find a place to hide people on the grounds. Destroy this now.
Her breath caught. For a moment, she simply stared, the words blurring as if the ink itself burned. Then, with trembling hands, she tore the letter into shreds no bigger than seeds and stuffed them into her boot.
Be ready. The words repeated in her head. Be ready. For what? For whom?
She wrapped her arms around herself. She had betrayed the trust of the family who had welcomed her, especially William, who called her "niece" with such pride. She should have been ashamed, and part of her was. But beneath the guilt was something stronger.
Conviction.
Yet conviction wasn’t enough. She needed help. Someone who wouldn’t betray her. For a brief moment, her thoughts turned to Alice. Alice had been nothing but warm, embracing her like a daughter. Maybe she would understand. Maybe she could be trusted. But then Natalie remembered the way Alice’s hands shook when Billy grew violent, the way she folded into silence instead of standing against him. Alice loved deeply, but fear had bound her. Trusting her might endanger them both.
Natalie thought of Miss Patty, whose sharp eyes missed nothing, whose presence in the house was steady as the earth itself. But Miss Patty had her own quiet burdens to bear, and if exposed, the cost to her would be too great.
That left Lucy. Silent, bruised, but unbroken. A girl who had already learned how to endure without surrendering her spirit. Natalie’s chest tightened. Lucy was the one. She was young, but she carried the kind of strength born of survival. If Natalie were to choose someone, it had to be her.
Natalie sat in the stillness of her room, her heart pounding with the enormity of what she had agreed to. She pressed her palms together and whispered to herself, as though saying the words aloud would steady her. “Be ready.”
Journal Entry-
There is a weight running through this house since Walt came. Uncle William is quieter. Alice sets fewer dishes on the table. Even the pantry looks sparse, as if the whole household knows to brace for what’s coming. They whisper of war. Some pray for it. Others dread it. But either way, it’s on the wind.
I walk past the cotton fields, and at first, they look like beauty, white and endless against the red clay. But if you look closer, you see the cost. The bent backs. The blistered hands. The silence of those who cannot speak. That silence is what keeps this house standing. That silence fills the table. It breaks me each time I sit down to eat.
Uncle William is kind in his way. Alice holds me close like family. Little Abby throws her arms around my neck with love so pure it makes me ache. But what would they do if I spoke the truth? That I do not believe this life is right. That I cannot accept a system that owns other people’s lives as if they were coins to be spent.
And then there is Billy. His presence pulls all warmth from the room. Even Alice stiffens when he enters. Henry stays pressed to her skirts. Miss Patty mutters prayers under her breath. It feels as though the land itself changes when he walks through it.
And the land. I cannot shake it. At night, it whispers. The trees shift with no wind. The orchard feels alive. Lamps are left burning all night, though no one admits to it. Miss Patty pours little mounds of salt on the window ledges and says it is for protection. Protection from what? No one will answer.
But I have my answer, pressed into my palm by Walt. Be ready. The words are carved into me now.
I cannot stop a war. I cannot end centuries of wrong. But I can do something. I can be someone. And I will.
Be ready.
Natalie
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
⚘ NO GOOD AFTER DARK
Janice had spent the early part of the morning trying to decipher the delicate journal she found beneath the staircase behind the false wall. The pages were so fragile that she feared they might disintegrate if she turned them too quickly. The leather binding creaked when she opened it, and the paper inside crumbled like pressed petals. She caught glimpses of names, scraps of phrases, and what looked like dates. But without context, it felt like trying to read someone else’s memory in a language that had no direct translation.
Next to the journal, she had found a folded piece of paper, a letter, brittle and sealed with a bit of wax. It had no address, only an elegant looping initial on the back: N. She had no idea what it said. The ink had faded into the parchment like veins, and the script was too fine, too chaotic to read in the dim light of the hallway. She placed both gently on the kitchen counter and stepped away, knowing she needed a break.
Outside, Guy and his crew were still hammering away out front, and the AC repairman had just left to fetch a part. The orchard behind the house beckoned to her like an open door, the kind of place that tugged at your curiosity until you gave in. She grabbed the folded map she had found with the journal and stepped into the heat.
She moved slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the shifting light, the air thick and motionless like it hadn’t been stirred in a century. Mosquitoes buzzed in maddening loops around her head. The cicadas shrieked their song somewhere above, a sound more like insect rebellion than birdsong. She pressed on, her boots parting the grass until pine straw took over, softening each step beneath the canopy of trees.
The deeper she went, the quieter it became. She was almost certain she had seen movement in this direction the night before, just a flicker of something. Now she wasn’t so sure.
Up ahead, through a break in the trees, a clearing appeared. Wrought iron fencing stood sentry, rust-flecked and half-eaten by time. Within the boundary lay headstones in various states of surrender, some crooked, some toppled, all aged to the point of being nearly illegible. She approached with care, walking between concave patches in the grass, careful not to step on anyone’s final resting place.
Names carved into stone whispered of lineage: Cheneys, Huxleys, and a handful of others she’d seen in the family Bible. Some markers were tall and stately, Civil War-era granite sentinels. Others were crude and short, no more than a name and date carved by an uncertain hand. The wealth of the dead seemed to fade the closer she came to the fence’s entrance.
She paused by one on the right side, a square slab with no base, just a single letter visible beneath the grime: W.
Janice crouched, wiping at the lichen and moss with the sleeve of her hoodie. The stone was thinner than the rest and oddly tilted, as if someone had shoved it into the earth in haste. Her fingers traced the letters.
“WC,” she whispered. A jolt ran through her chest.
Could that be William Cheney?
She pressed her palm over her heart, startled. Her grandmother’s great-great-grandfather had always been somewhat of a myth in their family lore. He was "the one who owned the plantation," "the one no one talked about." If this was him… why no full name? No dates? No sentiment?
She stood, dizzy with questions. Her eyes scanned the tree line. Why bury someone like this? Alone. Almost hidden.
The hairs on the back of her neck rose.
That’s when she saw it, off to the left, half-concealed by brush and bramble, a brown historical marker. Janice walked toward it. Raised lettering spelled it out: Trail of Tears.
Her stomach dropped. She looked down at her boots, at the soil beneath her feet. This path, the one she had been casually strolling, was once walked by people forced from their homes, marched hundreds of miles in grief, hunger, and pain.
She sank to an overturned log, her mind spinning.
How could she be thinking about rental prices and kitchen tiles when she was standing on ground soaked in sorrow? This wasn’t just a renovation project anymore. It was something else. Something layered and unsettled.
Her thoughts spiraled as she mapped it out in her head. This land had absorbed some of the lowest points in American history: the Trail of Tears, where children were buried along the roadside; slavery, where entire generations were worked, sold, and silenced; and later, the brittle newspaper clippings she had unfolded; Local Girl Missing After Church Picnic, Sheriff Urges Caution: Curfew in Place After Fourth Incident.
They hadn’t called it a serial killer then, but that’s what it read like now, horror layered upon horror, packed into the soil like strata of grief.
She realized this wasn’t history most people wanted to admit, let alone talk about. But she was going to learn what happened here. She had to. Driven by something she couldn’t yet name, Janice felt as though the land itself demanded it of her.
She looked again at the graveyard, at the names no one cleaned anymore. She’d promised herself she’d sell the house, start fresh. But now? Now she felt like she owed them something.
As she turned to go, the cicadas suddenly went silent, as if someone had pressed pause. She looked back once more at the grave marked WC.
“I’ll come back,” she murmured aloud. “I’ll clean you up. All of you.”
The forest seemed to relax.
Then the silence broke. The cicadas resumed their song as she crossed the invisible line between shadow and sunlight.
Her phone buzzed. It was Jeff.
Jeff: How’s it going down there? House driving you crazy yet?
Janice smiled faintly, thumbs moving.
Janice: Crazy doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’ll tell you soon. You’ll think I’m losing it.
Jeff: Nah. You’ve got this. Call me later; we’ll talk it out. Love ya.
Janice: Love you too.
She pocketed the phone, but her thoughts drifted to her mother. Ruth’s health weighed on her heavier than anything she’d found in the house. Early retirement, the treatments, the way her voice sometimes shook when she swore she was fine. This place was supposed to be a safety net for her. Fix the house, rent it out, keep the family afloat. But every day it became clearer: the house held more than old wood and peeling paint. It held a reckoning.
Before heading back, she shot a quick text to Matty:
Janice: Hey, thanks for coming over the other night. I’ll stop by the café soon to fill you in on what I’ve learned.
She slipped her phone away, then paused to look once more at the woods.
Her grandmother used to say nothing good ever came from being outside after dark. Ruth had repeated it to her more than once, warning with that same firm tone: Nothing good after dark, Janice. Remember that.
For the first time, Janice understood exactly what they meant.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
⚘ WHERE THE LAND SPLITS
A knock on the screen door broke Janice’s concentration.
She flinched, nearly closing the browser tab on the digital archives she’d been poring over. For hours, she’d been staring at lists of names tied to the Trail of Tears, thousands of them, and the grief behind those names seeped into her like ink through paper. She rubbed her eyes, realizing how heavy her chest felt.
She rose and opened the door. Guy stood on the porch, hat in hand, his face flushed from the sun.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, shifting from one boot to the other, “but I think you’re gonna want to see this.”
