Ike Hamill - Migrators

Alan and Bob pulled up several more boards and crouched on either side of the hole they’d made in the floor. Between two joists, a container several feet long sat atop the compressed insulation. Bob reached out his hand and touched the white surface.

“It’s wet,” Bob said.

Alan reached out and touched the thing. It was rectangular and several inches deep. The corners were rounded and the white surface was shiny in the moonlight, and not just because of the dampness. It was a shiny white enamel or ceramic.

“Help me lift it,” Alan said.

Bob nodded and slipped his hands under it. On his side of the hole, Alan did the same. They balanced the object as they pulled it from the hole. They sidestepped past the stack of floorboards and set it down in the middle of the attic.

“Hinges,” Bob said.

When he saw the seam that ran around the edge of the box, Alan had a flash of recognition. The thing was the same size and shape as a fancy guitar case—the kind of hard case a seasoned road musician would use because of its durability. This wasn’t black plastic though. This was white and felt like it was made of the same material as an old sink or a toilet.

Alan moved to the side opposite the hinges and found the latch. It was a simple mechanism with no lock. He flipped it up.

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Bob said.

“Why?”

Bob shrugged.

Alan frowned and pushed open the lid. It tilted up silently and revealed an interior of plush purple velvet. The material looked almost black in the dim light. Bob moved around the side and gasped when he saw the inside of the box. Alan didn’t make a sound. He felt a cold spike in the center of his chest.

Laid out inside the box—not in anatomically correct positions, the box wasn’t long enough for that—were human bones. The skull had been snapped into several fragments. The pieces were grouped near one end of the box with a collection of loose teeth. Most of the bones looked intact, with the exception of the skull, collarbone, and pelvis. Alan closed the lid.

“Who do you think it is?” Bob asked. “And why is it up here?”

“I think it’s the woman from the stairs,” Alan said. He rubbed the center of his chest, trying to warm up the cold spot there before it spread. “I’m guessing though. Help me carry it.”

They angled the box down the stairs and had to maneuver it carefully to fit through the small door at the bottom. Alan walked backwards down the main stairs and out through the front door. For its size, the box was heavy.

“Where are we going with this?” Bob asked.

“To your car,” Alan said.

Alan walked down the hill and then pulled to the side so Bob could open the back hatch to his SUV. The light in the back came on and Alan slid his end onto the upholstered interior. Alan ran up the hill and closed the front door of the house. When he returned to the SUV, Bob was still at the back, tracing his fingers over the surface of the porcelain box.

Bob knelt and scratched at the ground at the side of the road. He came back up with a handful of mud. He slapped it down on the lid of the box.

“What are you doing?” Alan asked.

“There’s something here,” Bob said. He wiped the mud over the surface and it settled into tiny scratches on the lid. As he wiped away the excess mud, he revealed engraved letters.

Bob read aloud the writing on the top of the box.

“Sophia Helen Prescott, 1933-1963. In aeternum .”

Alan reached forward and took the remaining mud. He spread it across the rest of the cover, looking for more words. He didn’t find any.

“I thought Sophia Helen died when she was a baby. Must be a different one,” Bob said.

“It’s the exact same name, and the years are right for Buster’s sister. I think the old guy lied to us,” Alan said.

“But why? And why was she in your attic?”

“I bet Paul put here there. The Colonel bought the house from Paul in either ’63 or ’64, I don’t remember which.”

“What are we going to do with her?”

Alan leaned against the back of the vehicle and thought. He ran his finger along the side of the box, feeling the seam. With the latch secured, the box was tight. He could barely catch the edge with his thumbnail.

“Buster said those things exist to decompose spirits,” Alan said. “If she’s the woman who has been hanging out on my stairs, then I’d say that those migrators aren’t doing their job.”

“Maybe they can’t get inside this box,” Bob said.

“I wonder if I can kill two birds with one stone. What if I give these bones to the migrators and get rid of them and the ghost at the same time?”

“I thought you didn’t believe in that stuff?” Bob asked.

“So I won’t be disappointed if it doesn’t work,” Alan said. “Want to go on a hike?”

BOB WAS IN THE lead. He was reaching back and holding the box at waist-level. Alan brought up the rear. They marched through the woods.

“What makes you think they’ll be at the pond again?” Bob asked over his shoulder.

“It’s as good a place as any,” Alan said. “It’s on the way between the lake and river, and we’ve seen them there before. I say we just give these bones a Viking funeral in the pond and then see what happens.”

Alan’s legs ached as they shuffled through the woods. He had been pointing his left foot upwards as they walked in an effort to keep the pressure off his toe, but his muscles cramped and then gave in. Now with each step, he felt the grind of his bone against the shoe. The feeling sent a weird itch up his spine. It was somewhere between excruciating pain and a weird tickle that he prayed would stop. Still, he walked. He tried to focus on his breathing, which whistled in through his mouth.

Bob stopped and Alan ran into the back of the box.

“What?” Alan asked.

“Lights,” Bob said.

Alan moved to the side so he could see past Bob. In the distance, uphill from their position, he saw firelight. Alan lowered his end of the box to the ground. Bob felt the movement and did the same. The two stared through the woods. The firelight was coming from inside the cabin at the top of the hill.

“What the hell is that?” Bob whispered.

“I’m going to check it out,” Alan said. “If something happens to me, run and get the real police. Get a state trooper if you can.”

Bob nodded.

Alan circled to the west of the cabin so he wouldn’t be approaching in the light coming through the window of the cabin. He paused every few paces to listen. When he looked back, Bob had moved behind a tree. Alan stepped as lightly as he could and pressed his back to the side of the log cabin. He made his way to the corner and peered around. Next, he slid along the north wall until he reached the window.

Someone inside the cabin walked in front of the window and Alan pulled back.

Barely audible above the cracking and popping of the fire, he heard a low conversation. He couldn’t make out any of the words.

Alan held his breath as he moved his head around the corner to see inside.

The light in the room was coming from a fire, burning in a stone-lined circle. Pillars of brick around the fire held up the chimney that carried away the smoke. On the other side of the fire, Alan saw two small figures holding hands. They weren’t the source of the conversation. The voices were coming from somewhere towards the front of the cabin.

Alan blinked at the figures through the fire. There was something unusual about the one on the right. The flames died down and Alan got a better look—one of the figures was a little girl, but the other wasn’t a person at all. It was a scarecrow, dressed in jeans and a jacket and a red baseball cap. The girl wore similar clothes—jeans and a jacket over her shirt. She was holding the scarecrow’s straw hand.