The Devil's Beating His Wife (13 page)

The second time, well, he did the same thing with the same result. And the third and fourth time brought about the same thing.

The fifth time, he decided to shake things up a bit. He ran outside the door instead of simply walking. His body only re-appeared that much faster. Damn fool.

He tried jumping out of the window. Crawling through the floor and out the bottom. He even tried to bash his own head in, as if dying twice would be his ticket out.

If I was honest, I'd admit that I was just as much of a fool as he was. Each and every time, I'd watch him in case he did stumble across a final exit. I was spiteful, I admit. But I wasn't gonna cut off my nose to spite my face. I never made an attempt to escape. That would mean leaving the small room, and I knew that if I did, Baxter would see it as some sign of forgiveness.

Baxter was nearly humming, he was that excited. I shifted my body a bit so I could see him out of the corner of my eye. It was as much attention as he was ever gonna get out of me. He had murdered me, after all.

His back was facing me, tensing up by the moment. He raised his hand, balled it into a fist, and struck the door frame. He uttered a loud, "Fuck!"

With his attention on something else, I felt comfortable enough to stare directly at him. I moved away from the shadows and stuck my head through the hole in the wall. Baxter hadn't even noticed my movements. He was too caught up in what was happening outside.

I craned my neck and stood on tiptoe. I couldn't see anything. Was it Heaven's gate wide open? Oh, no. No. No. There was no way in Hell I'd allow him into Heaven before me.

In my eagerness to beat him into Heaven, I darted out of the small bedroom. My feet carried lightly yet quickly over the wooden floor, causing no creaks. My eyes were focused straight ahead, avoiding the spot where my body had been. I held my breath as if the smell of rotting flesh still lingered in the air. It was especially silly, since I didn't need to breathe.

I stood two steps behind him. Ducking down, I glanced around his narrow hips. I still couldn't see a damn thing. If it had been Heaven's gate, I'd imagine it would have been large and eye-catching.

"What is it?" The words fell out my mouth before I realized I was about to speak to him. My murderer.

The curve of his spine lengthened and then he spun around. His eyes widened and his cheeks blossomed into a blush. "You spoke to me."

My lips puckered with disapproval. I stepped up to him, placed my hand on his upper arm, and pushed him out of my way. I took his place in the doorway so I could finally see what was outside.

There was no gate. But there was a sign. Not a spiritual sign, but an actual sign.

"Land and House Auction. Today, June 13, 1970 from 12-3."

"It's 1970," I muttered. Dear Jesus, I had been dead for over twenty-five years.

I felt panic rise within me. It was a strange sensation, something I hadn't felt in what was probably all of those twenty-five years. It didn't seem right. Where had all of that time gone? Why hadn't I known it had been that long?

"You okay, Spicey?" Baxter asked, standing at my shoulder. He lifted his hand as if to touch me but then let it drop away. I brushed past him and walked to the center of the room.

I had died here. Twenty-five years ago. I doubled over, mimicking the act of mourning. I was dead and I had been dead for a long time. Why had this happened to me?

I sunk to the floor where my body had lain. My fingers rubbed over the floorboard where the dark stain of my blood still lingered. I glanced towards the wall and mirror where Baxter's brains had been. That had been cleaned away long ago.

"We're dead," I said out loud.

"Yes," he said simply.

I pushed my fingers through the thick layer of dirt on the floor, drawing circles. I was dead. I no longer had a heartbeat. I no longer needed to breathe. I could recall the feel of emotions, but I no longer needed to experience them.

In spite of all of that, I could touch the world. I could feel the dirt. It didn't feel the same as when I had been alive. It was just something that I could touch and manipulate.

My eyes rose to stare at the overturned coffee table. Hesitantly, I reached out to touch it, wanting to know if I could feel that too. I did. I pushed on it softly, but it did nothing. Pushing harder, I tried to move it.

The sound of scraping wood filled the room. The table scooted across the floor and struck the wall. This new realization surprised and tickled me.

"Just not living things," Baxter said from beside me.

I turned to look at him. My hand pulled back to swing at him. He grabbed my wrist and dropped my hand to my side.

"Like I said," he began, nodding at the ground. "We can't touch living things. But you and me, we're dead. Just like that dirt. That wood. We can touch and move them."

"How do you know this?" I asked him.

Baxter shrugged and crossed his arms. "While you were hiding in the shadows, sulking, I was out here exploring our surroundings. I learned quite a bit through trial and error."

"Anything else I should know about?" I asked, sneering at him.

He shrugged again. "You can figure out it. I know you can. But try not to look too hard towards the barn."

"Why not?"

He shook his head. "Just don't."

"It's 1970," I told him.

"I know that, Spicey."

What all had he learned? "How do you know that?"

Baxter grinned. His eyes crinkled and faint lines appeared near his mouth. "I read the sign, too."

"Why are we still here?" The words stumbled from my mouth.

Baxter shook his head. He glanced over my shoulder and looked outside. He squinted at something in the distance. "I don't know," he said before walking past me to stand at the door again. "That can't be."

My head whipped around to see what he saw. Standing outside the house was a lone man. He was an older man, probably in his late forties or early fifties. His dark red hair was slicked away from his forehead. He wore a pair of faded denim overalls with a black button-down shirt underneath them.

When his mouth opened, I immediately recognized those buck-teeth. "Charles Vincent," I said, the name coming out in a rush of hatred. Charlie had been the loudest member of the group that had killed my brother and terrorized our town. It was infuriating to see him standing at the place where I died while he bloomed with health.

Baxter remained standing at the door, seething with his own rage. He didn't move a muscle even when Charlie walked up the broken steps and opened the screen door to our final resting place. Charlie stepped into the room, passing right through Baxter's body.

There must have been an exchange that I couldn't see because when Charlie passed through Baxter, he immediately shuddered and turned around to face the door. A look of confusion twisted his face. His eyes grew large and his mouth hung open.

In contrast, Baxter stood facing Charlie. Baxter's chest moved up and down rapidly. His fingers were curled into fists and his eyes were darkened. The look he gave Charlie struck fear into my dead heart.

Charlie turned around and dropped his eyes towards the floor. He noticed the dark stains in the wood. He pressed his foot down onto those spots of wood, a pleased smile on his face. "Got that nigger good, didn't you Baxter?"

Baxter surged forward. His hands made a clenching motion as he went for Charlie's throat, but they never made an impact. Baxter stumbled through Charlie's body. He didn't seem surprised that it happened. He just corrected his step and stormed into the kitchen.

At that moment, two things formed in my mind. The first was the knowledge that in death, Baxter no longer limped. The second thought replayed Baxter's words from earlier. We could touch dead things, but not living things.

I placed my foot firmly on the overturned table and pushed it towards Charlie. It slid across the floor and struck the back of his leg. He yelped with surprise and turned to stare down at the table. But just then, a younger man stepped into the room. His reddish-brown hair gleamed in the sunshine streaming through the holes in the roof.

"Why'd you do that?" asked Charlie.

The other man joined Charlie in the middle of the room. He glanced around. His lip curled and his eyes narrowed. "Do what?"

Charlie stepped away from the man and pointed down at the table. "You hit me with that table, Ronald."

Ronald glanced down at the table then back at Charlie. He arched an eyebrow and said, "You're imagining things, Dad."

Charlie retreated further away. His gaze darted between the table and his son. "You telling me that you didn't do that?"

Ronald cocked his head and stared at the floor. "No. I just entered the room. When I came in, that table was near you already. You know, maybe it's the floor. It's all warped and rotten. Something probably shifted and caused the table to flip over and hit you." Ronald glanced towards the ceiling and then surveyed the decaying walls. "They seriously trying to get rid of this place? I thought they'd kept it in the family as some kind of shrine."

"That was the mama's call," Charlie said. "She wanted to keep onto this place as if she could have kept onto her son. But now that she's passed on, Carver wants to get rid of it."

The sound of his brother's name brought Baxter back into the room. He stared at Charlie and then the other man. He glanced toward me and said, "Are they talking about Carver?"

"And your mama," I added.

Baxter prowled closer to the men. The murderous glint was still in his eye. "What did they say about my mother?" I remained silent. Baxter looked at me and raised his eyebrows. "Spicey?"

I knew the words would hurt him. I should have taken pleasure in that, but I knew how close he had been to his mother. In spite of it all, his mother had probably been the most decent out of all of them. "They said that Carver was selling this place now that your...." I took a deep breath. "He's selling this place now that your mama is dead."

He just nodded and dropped his gaze. There was no sadness. No despair. Just acceptance. "Did they say anything about my father?"

"No."

Baxter's lips tightened. "He's probably already dead." I raised my hand to place it on his shoulder, but he shrugged away from me. Then he turned a hard glare on me. "Like you said, it's been twenty-five years. We're locked in this place, but life and death continues on, Spicey." He pointed towards Charlie. "Look at him. He probably went and got married to some pretty girl. He's got a son. Maybe a few other kids, too. We might be dead, but the living keeps on living." For a moment, he stared at Charlie, envy on his face.

I looked at Baxter and then my eyes followed Ronald and Charlie as they walked through the house, talking about the repairs needed. "I don't understand," I said. "Why would your mama buy this place after we died?"

Baxter's blue eyes pinned me in my spot. Then he paled and looked away. He inhaled slowly and ducked his head. "She didn't. I did."

His response startled a laugh out of me. "You figured out how to buy farms as a ghost?"

Baxter shook his head. "I bought this place the day before we died." His eyes darkened as he focused on my face. "Spicey, I bought this place for us."

CHAPTER SEVEN

June 20, 1970, Laurens County

A loud-pitched scream tore through the air. We both tensed, thinking them living people had seen us. Then this little girl came running into the house, carrying a small purse. Her appearance so surprised me that I looked towards Baxter for confirmation.

The skin around his nose and eyes wrinkled as he closed his eyes tightly. He rubbed his palms over his cheeks and shook his head. When he opened his eyes again, he caught me staring at him. Instead of his usual look of adoration, he stared back at me with panic. "This ain't good."

"You figure that out all by yourself, didya?"

Before he could respond, there was a sharp bark. I turned back to the scene outside and saw an ugly shaggy dog sprinting after the little girl. Just as the dog was about to go pouncing around the corner, its body withered and fell to the ground. Then the animal turned towards the door, glanced directly at us, and bared its teeth.

"Don't move," I said.

"That dog can't hurt us."

"But, it sees us. It might do something to let them know we's here." For as long as I'd been there, there had always been animals. Raccoons, possums, wild cats, and the like. They had all come into this rotten place. They had all scampered away once they noticed our presence.

"What exactly would that something be? A bark?" Baxter asked.

The dog stepped towards us with its lips curled back and spittle dripping from its mouth. He lunged towards us and I sprang backwards, crunching down on Baxter's foot. A feeling of pure spitefulness spiraled in my chest. I turned around and kneed Baxter in the groin.

He choked on the air as his knees gave out. He fell to the ground with his hands covering his pecker. Behind us, the dog quieted down and twisted its head back and forth.

After a few moments of groaning and cursing, Baxter finally said, "That wasn't very nice."

"Killing me wasn't very nice. If you ask me, you deserve a hell of a lot more than a swift kick to the nuts."

He flipped over to sit on his ass. He brought his knees up and braced his forearms against them. "I didn't kill you."

"Yes, you did."

"No. You pulled the trigger."

Placing my hands on my hips, I glared down at him. As clear as day, I could recall his finger wrapping around the trigger. Pulling it. "I most certainly did not."

He waved his hands in the air as if grasping a large globe. "You did. You were holding the gun, and you thought it was turned in my direction, then you pulled the trigger. You killed yourself."

Baxter wouldn't look at me. His eyes focused on spots above or behind me. The man was lying about who was responsible for my death. That was a habit of his. Trying to ignore his part in the deaths of others.