A. Colucci - Seeders

Monica rolled on her back. “Wonder how he knew?”

He rolled with her. “Knew what?”

She looked at him through sleepy lids. “He was right. I never did it.”

“You mean… it ?”

“S’not true that I’m scared. I would do it. With the right person. Can’t be jus’ anyone.”

“You’re pretty drunk. Maybe you should go to sleep. In a few hours, we’ll be on a boat to Canada.”

“’Less Beecher kills us first.”

“You just said he was dead.”

“Mm, maybe.” She seemed suddenly panicked by a thought. “Wha’f your mom can’t find Canada and we end up los’ at sea? Or the storm goes for days and we get stuck. Goin’ nuts from the trees—”

“Shhh, you’re getting yourself worked up.”

She took another drink.

This time, Luke grabbed the bottle. “Hey, cut it out. You’ve had enough.”

“I was jus’ thinkin’, we really could die. I’d hate to die without ever… you know .”

Luke blinked, and his cheeks flushed. He drank from the bottle of gin until his throat burned. This time he didn’t cough. He wiped his mouth and put the gin on the nightstand.

She asked, “You haven’t either, right?”

He shook his head, staring at the candle and thinking. “Are you sure?”

She unsnapped his jeans.

RAIN DRIPPED OVER THE HEADSTONE. Ginny ran her fingertips over the rough exterior, touching the cross, and a smile curled at the corners of her lips.

With the flashlight propped on a rock, she wasted no time digging for the diamond. But the ground was runny as silt and each scoop only filled the hole with more mud. As she dug in deep, it occurred to her that the diamond might have washed away years ago. Even worse, maybe it was never buried here at all and she’d been sent on a wild-goose chase.

“Damn you, George, to bloody hell.”

Rain pelted her head but she looked at the cross with renewed confidence. “It’s here, I know it. Right here in this grave.”

After she’d removed about a foot of soil, she plunged her hands deep into the muck, working her fingers like backhoes until she was up to her shoulders in mud. Suddenly, she felt the neck of a bottle. She grasped it and tugged, pulling her arms free. Her pulse kicked up a notch as the bottle finally emerged with a sucking sound. In her muddy grip was a dome-shaped liquor bottle. Ginny wiped it clean and chuckled.

George was daft but elegant, burying a rare diamond in a bottle of expensive cognac. She was ready for another battle with the cork, but it loosened and popped with no effort.

The flashlight revealed a gold chain attached to the cork, and she held it up to view. At the end of the chain was the jewel. The diamond spun in the brightness of the flashlight, casting bits of pink sparkle in her muddy hand. It was bigger than she expected—the size of a large pearl.

Ginny grasped it tight and pressed it to her chest.

“Thank you, George darling.” With a heavy sigh she tried to get to her feet, but they were stuck in mud. She squirmed side to side, not wanting to lose either the diamond or the flashlight, but the pain of arthritis caught up to her.

“Oh, blast these old bones.”

Darkness completely enveloped the woods, and the water was still rising. It would be a rough journey back. A loud crack of thunder made Ginny flinch. Lightning illuminated the treetops blowing fierce in the wind.

“Damned weather,” she muttered.

The next burst of light revealed a dark silhouette standing over her. She jolted again, but breathed out relief when she raised the flashlight. He was wearing pants but no shirt, and had stooped shoulders, a round white belly, and black hair that clung like seaweed to his head. He was smiling.

“Sean,” she cried out. “Help me up!”

A hatchet rose over his head.

Ginny shot up a hand and her face contorted into a scream as the blade came down hard. It sliced cleanly into her skull, where it stuck, making the wood handle seem like a protruding horn. Ginny’s head slumped back under its weight, her eyes rolled into her head, mouth opening and closing like a fish; an involuntary movement, as her brain was now cut in half. Blood poured down her face with rain as she hit the muddy ground, fist still clinging tightly around the diamond.

The storm continued in waves of torrent and languor. Monica awoke naked and shivering, caught somewhere between a drunken stupor and a hangover. The candle by the bed flickered from a draft and the house was bitterly cold. It took a long moment to figure out she was in Luke’s room.

Footsteps in the hallway stopped in front of the door and she panicked, stumbling to her feet. She waited until she heard the shoes walking away. It took several tries to step into her underwear and she found it impossible to put on her sweatsuit, so she rolled it into a ball, pressed to her bare chest.

At the edge of the bed she looked down at Luke, and stared at his face that seemed more boyish in sleep. She vaguely remembered having sex with him. He had confident hands, artfully slow, and so in control of their lovemaking that she thought he must have read a book or something.

“Ness time I won’t be so wasted.” She wanted to kiss his cheek, but bending down upset her balance and her stomach. She picked up a candle on the nightstand. “G’night… I’m glad it was you.”

The hallway swayed. Monica took careful steps so as not to fall over, while trying to remember which door was her bedroom. It was definitely by the stairs, just past the landing. The candle led the way as she patted the peeling wallpaper for support.

She could see the flicker of another candle in the stairwell. Her steps slowed as she approached, squinting in the dark.

“Iss-belle?” She craned her neck.

Sean was sitting on the stairs, a candle by his side. His hair was soaking wet and he looked like a corpse with snow-white skin, blue lips, and pupils full and black. He was bare-chested, with dark stains down one arm.

Monica snorted her disgust. He was staring at her legs, smirking, and she stumbled quickly to the door across from him.

“Freak,” she muttered and shut the door behind her.

It was even colder in the room but Monica was too drunk to care. She dropped the candle and the flame blew out as it struck the floor. She fell into bed and was asleep before her face hit the mattress.

Rain splashed against the windowpane. The door opened with a sharp creak and candlelight danced into the room. A pair of feet padded across the wood floor and, as lightning struck, a shadow passed by the window.

Monica rolled onto her back to take a breath. She smiled drunkenly, feeling Luke’s hands on her breasts again, straddling her like before. She opened her eyes into tiny slits to see a figure leaning over her.

Cutting shears came down into her throat.

Her head snapped back with a gasping breath. Eyes wide with terror, she tried to scream but her voice was no more than a gurgle. Her hands yearned to grasp her neck, stop the pain and rush of blood from her throat, but she was paralyzed.

Sean squirmed onto her naked chest, holding her wrists above her head. He looked down, smiling, and the other hand pulled the shears out of her neck with a sloshing sound that sprayed them both with blood.

He snorted with pride. He’d been smart this time. Monica could feel pain, but couldn’t move or make a sound. He could take his time with her and not worry about interruptions. He watched her struggle, while his hands wrapped around the bloody handle of the cutting shears so the blades opened and closed like tiny crab claws in front of her eyes. Sean leaned close to her ear so she could feel each hot breath pass his lips.