Purgatory, West Virginia
March 14
Finn lay in bed and stared at the wall. The light from the lamp on the nightstand and tree branches combined to create a Rorschach test of shadow puppets. The images were a slideshow pulled straight from his nightmares. In the dark projection of leaves and limbs, he saw a man hanging by his wrists from the ceiling, a wolf baring its teeth, a bony hand grasping at nothing.
Then, slowly, as he watched the macabre show, the long, withered hand seemed to come away from the wall, running along the floor, reaching out to him.
Finn shot up and blinked forcefully. The shadow retreated, once again a harmless branch dancing on the wall.
He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. It was late. He was tired.
No.
He swung one bare foot onto the floor, then the other, and scanned the spartan room—bed, nightstand, bare floor, canvas duffle in the small closet, white walls, open window, moving shadows, closed door.
His eyes moved back to the window.
The threadbare curtains hung limp. Finn’s gaze returned to the dancing shadows on the wall. He stood, walked to the lead-paned glass, and turned the crank, opening the windows the rest of the way. The night was cold, still, the moon orange and full. He pictured the shadows dancing on the wall behind him and stared out at the unmoving trees in the darkness. There was no wind, not so much as a breeze.
Silent.
Finn curled his bare toes on the wood floor. He looked over his shoulder; the silhouettes were now motionless, an abstract mural. He returned his attention to the window then shot his eyes back as if attempting to catch the shadows misbehaving. Nothing.
A clump of wet snow slid from the roof. The house groaned.
Finn crossed the room to the closed bedroom door. He placed his hand on the knob.
Another groan.
It wasn’t the sound of a settling structure or a weak foundation. Finn knew the sound; he had made the sound—the stifled cry of a man in pain.
He pulled open the door and stepped into the hall—the darkness absolute. The air was thick and weighted, the smell, sweet. The wall beneath his hand felt convex as if bending to accommodate something.
Moving slowly toward the locked door at the end of the hall, Finn stopped and jerked back when the string from the overhead light brushed his face. He swatted it away, imagining a spider repelling from a web. He wrangled the worn thread and pulled. It snapped, leaving him holding half. Groping above his head in the pitch black, he found the remnant and tugged again.
The bulb illuminated the hall for an instant. A flash of light where the space seemed to expand then contract, the door at the end pressing at the confines of its frame. The bulb filament popped, and again he was plunged into darkness.
Finn stumbled forward, nearly colliding with the door, his hand landing on the knob which gave way. His momentum took him across the threshold and onto the floor. The door hit the wall and bounced back, slamming behind him.
Moonlight filtered in, casting the room in a soft blue glow. Finn climbed to his feet and assessed his surroundings as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.
The first thing he noticed was the smell; the air was loamy and oppressive. Finn took an involuntary step back, the earthy air rattling cages in his mind. He placed a hand on the wall and immediately pulled it back. What had he touched? He felt the surface again. Rather than the rough, dusty expanse of plaster, the wall felt… soft. He stepped closer. Were the walls and ceiling covered with...
Moss?
Passing clouds obscured the moon, and the room went dark. In the pitch, surrounded by damp earth, Finn had the horrifying sensation of being buried alive.
Summoning a forced calm, Finn reached behind him, pulled at the door, and propped it open with a chair. He walked back to the bedroom and grabbed the flashlight from his bag. Spotting an old lantern in the corner of the closet, he took it and returned to the office. After lighting the wick and turning the tiny knob, the flame grew and illuminated the room.
The walls were covered in a textured green wallpaper in a design of broad palm leaves. There was no moss, simply the soft fuzz of the pattern.
Shaking off his misperception, Finn faced the room. He took a moment to process what he was seeing. It felt like he had stumbled from a spartan retreat into the office of an obsessed police detective.
To his left, a corkboard hung on the wall; a length of red yarn ran across it, marking a timeline of three days. He took a step closer and examined the display. Several notes were written below the dates. Colored paper triangles marked each day ending on the far right, June 18, 1982.
Finn set the lantern on the desk in the center of the room where dust-covered files, curled post-it notes, a chipped coffee mug, and a small lamp with a rectangular green glass shade occupied every inch of space. Finn picked up a file and blew off the dust. The tab read: Murray Guthrie. Flipping it open, he glanced at pages of notes and old photographs. He set it back down and grabbed another: Fern Jacobs. A third read: Purgatory High School.
To his right, a whiteboard was cluttered with photographs and scribbled notes, lines connecting certain pictures in a spiderweb of confusion. In the upper right-hand corner, five words were written in a column, each bordered by black marker: Revenge, Greed, Secret, Hate, Jealousy. Finn’s eyes lit with understanding as he stared at the list of common motives.