u/samuraiiswords

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11

I don’t need to tell Beth what happened to the bodies in the death house, what happened to her pseudo father Dr. Schile’s body. As soon as we return to the clinic, she comes anxiously to see us, eyes red rimmed, and distressed, a little bloodshot, and she knows. She shakes her head, mumbling over and over, “No, no, no- no!” Body half-collapsing as we both reach for her. She knows exactly what happened. She knows Dr. Schile is gone, not just everything that made him, him, but physically too. It’s a shocking blow for all of us. It feels like the last few days, and weeks where people keep dying was nothing more than a trapped wintery dream.

Without the bodies, well, I don’t know how to describe it. It’s as if maybe we really did slip into a nightmare, and slip out. Maybe all three of them, just wandered out into the storm, and didn’t return. Without the proof, and despite the memories and collective knowledge, it was almost as if we can convince ourselves that it was really a terrible dream.

There’s a look we give each other, I never really understand it until later, but it is fear. Something I’ve seen before, something we’ve all seen. That deep unknown. Latching onto anything to make sense of it, to make it easier. I just wanted to know. I just want to understand.

You don’t see that fear everyday, its only glimpses, but in Saltpine, as people kept dying, I’d see it everywhere. All the time. I’d see acceptance too. A kind of accepted relief. I couldn’t understand it, and maybe that look scared me more.

Trinity is humming along to the radio as I check her over again, eyes following me everywhere I go, body stock still though. As if there is something inside of her that is trying to escape. I can’t explain why I think that, just that I nagged at me, felt like something in those eyes were silently pleading, or planning, or both.

I don’t stay long, the storm hit, and the next day I have another patient I’m very worried for. One who hasn’t left her home in over four years, and lately it’s been getting worse. Her agoraphobia has grown, she now won’t get out of bed unless her bladder is about to burst. Her bed being her own safe space. If you ask her, that’s not why she won’t leave though, and I am trying to find a better diagnosis, have been for our last few sessions, but with everything going on, I have neglected much of my responsibility and duty to her, to my other patients as well.

Grahm drives me over.

She lives alone, and I really would have liked to remedy that, but there’s little to do with the town closed off, and so few resources. Her best friend and cousin from high school, and grade school before that comes over when she can, helps clean up, makes sure she eats. Even so, when we get there, it’s a mess.

The houses is trapped by snow on all sides, there’s indents of old deep foot prints from winter boots, covered over and filled half way from the onset of the last storm. The windows are mostly covered with it, and getting the door open takes Grahm and I a combined effort and strength to do so.

The house is small, an old miner’s house, but with a basement that holds an old firewood stove. She must not have lit it in a while, I’m freezing despite still wearing my large winter coat when I step in, and dark too. Pitch black, but Grahm has his flashlight, and shines it into the room, garbage is piled, and clothes too.

“Sam?” I call, gently, but firmly into the dark expanse.

There’s a kitchen, a living room, and bedroom off to the side next to the bathroom. That’s it. The basement door is next to the open one. It might seem like enough for her, and it is, but she lived here her whole life here. Before it was just her, she was with her parents and grandparents all under one roof here. Her grandma died when she was a baby. Her parents one by one. And then, as she spent her years in puberty with her grandfather, just after graduation, he died too.

She has never left her house since.

“In h- here! D- Dr. C- Cotts!” She calls, shivering with every word.

My concern grows, eyes turning to Grahm who nods silently, and then voices, “I’ll get the stove going, and see if I can find some food. Take this.” He hands me another flashlight, smaller, I accept it.

I thank him with a short nod, pushing through to the bedroom door, I knock again before entering. I find her curled up in her bed, under a mountain blankets, peeking out with pale lips. She’s trembling, and yet despite that she looks well rested. She smiles, all teeth.

“Hi, Sam.” I say gently, shining the light next to her.

“H- Hey.” She flinches, pupils wide, face pale. She looks ill. Like something’s off, almost ghoulish.

“Special Constable Grahm is here, he’s getting the house warmed up for us. Would you like to wait, or start now?”

Her eyes shift a little, there’s something guilty there. “N- Now.”

-

TAPED SESSION: SAMANTHA BOUVIER WITH DR. COTTS #8

Dr. Cotts: This is Dr. Cotts conducting session #[redacted] with Samantha Bouvier.

How are you feeling, Sam?

Samantha: C- Cold.

Dr. Cotts: Well, I can hear the fire now, but that’s physically. Let’s talk about how your mind is doing?

Samantha: F- Fine. I’ve been s- sleeping a lot.

Dr. Cotts: Last time I was here, we talked about how much sleep a person needs, remember?

Samantha: Y- Yeah. Eight hours.

Dr. Cotts: About eight, yes. Last time you were far above that. How about now? Did the medication help?

Samantha: …

Dr. Cotts: It’s alright, Sam. I just need you to be honest with me, it stays between us, remember?

Samantha: Nineteen.

Dr. Cotts: You’ve been sleeping for nineteen hours a day?

Samantha: Yes.

Dr. Cotts: How?

Samantha: …

Samantha: I didn’t throw away all the sleeping pills.

Dr. Cotts: I see.

Samantha: But Dr. Cotts, I had to! Please don’t be angry with me!

Dr. Cotts: It’s alright, take a deep breath, I’m not angry. But I do think we should talk about this further, is that okay with you?

Samantha: Y- Yeah. I guess.

Dr. Cotts: Alright, so let’s start off from last time.

Last time, you told me that you need them to see your grandfather, can you tell me more about that?

Samantha: W- Well, it’s not exactly like that.

Dr. Cotts: What is it like, then?

Samantha: It’s- It’s hard to explain.

Dr. Cotts: Can you try?

Samantha: Okay. My grandfather was a miner. Most grandfathers are around here. Were. Lots of fathers still are, but they go out of the town now for it during the summer.

Dr. Cotts: Yes, I remember.

Oil wells now, is that right?

Samantha: Yeah, but it never used to be like that. It used to be salt. Here.

You know there’s a story, a myth of sorts to how we got our name. They say people came through here, missionaries who never been to Canada before. They come from overseas, places without snow. There was no snow because it was late in the year, all up the coast, up through the west, but once they got this far north, there it was, snow! They didn’t know what to call it, so they called it salt. Saw the pine trees, and called it Saltpine. Everyone who goes to school here knows that, something we’d whisper about on the playground around nine or ten. Learned it from an older brother or cousin, or something. Thought we were so smart to figure it out.

But then, you get older, and you find out about the salt under it.

Everyone knew someone who was trying to get it out.

Father, grandfather, brother, uncle. Someone. Then, the childish feeling disappears. You feel old, stupid, oh, that’s why. Saltpine.

But nobody does it anymore. Get the salt out. It’s not there anymore. Then, you start to ask why. I was just a kid, and I came home, and asked my father. My grandfather who never says anything, just sits in that old armchair and stares out the window, finally spoke. It was the first I ever heard him speak since those first few times after my grandma died where he'd rant about how 'they changed his name, their name.' I think even my dad was shocked. He was frozen, didn’t interrupt, didn’t say anything, even when it got strange. The kind of strange that makes you shiver even though the stove is going on a twenty plus day.

My grandfather was one of the lucky ones who made it out when it collapsed. The whole fucking mine. It just collapsed on them as they were working. Everyone was worried because almost all the salt was gone. The salt company was about to pull out of here, and everyone’s jobs would be lost. Almost every family relied on it.

People who’ve never been here say such awful things, saying we did it on purpose to get the buyout of insurance, and lifetime payments from the company, government assistance. But people died, Dr. Cotts. And the way my grandfather told it…

He was the deepest in too, didn’t make sense how he got out.

He says there was a light, it was far off in the distance, everyone got scared, but not my grandfather, he went in past all the frozen miners. Brothers, uncles, cousins, neighbors, everyone. He went straight to it, never been afraid. Been in those mines since he was nine. The light was like an orb. It looked like the story his own father told him about…

He went further than all of them, and then the light shot out towards him, and as it came closer, all the wood bent inward by some unseen force, some unseen hands, maybe? It wasn’t possible. But, it broke so easy, like someone snapping toothpicks, but these wood beams were so large, so massive, it’s not possible. Even dirt collapsing couldn’t do it like that.

All the dirt caved in so quickly, nobody had time to react. It went up his ears, he said, through his nose, down his throat, swallowed them all whole.

He grasped for something, hands curled around roots he said, and then he felt it. The whole earth was groaning, travailing, it was moving away, and then towards him in a scheduled rhythm. As if the whole earth was breathing. In and out. In and out. In and out.

He reached for the roots through the dirt when it would breathe out, then it would breathe in and he’d stop, then it breathe out and he’d grab another root, over and over, until somehow he clawed his way out of it completely.

He told me this as he sat in that armchair that’s right out in the living room, not just with his face pointed towards window, he’d sleep too, all the time, he told me that when he’s asleep- when he’s dreaming, he’s back there.

I asked him why’d he want to go back, shaking and terrified as I was at ten, that story scared me so bad. I was so young. All that dark. All that dark. Felt like a monster was trying to swallow them up. But, he told me that it wasn’t scary for him. He told me…

Dr. Cotts: …

Dr. Cotts: What did he tell you?

Samantha: Well, after the mine collapsed, when he dug his way up, he couldn’t see anymore. His eyesight was gone, could only see the blinding white when it snowed, and the dark when he shut em. So, I thought he sat in that chair because he could only see the snow, and looked out there. But I think it’s because as he sat in that chair, dreaming, he could see. He could really see. Better than most who can. I want to see too. I don’t want to sleep Dr. Cotts, I only want to dream.

Dr. Cotts: What did he tell you, Sam?

Samantha: He told me, that he never understood why my grandmother went to church until then. He told me that he wants to go back. Back to that light.

He was found behind the house, you know. He was digging in the dirt. Collapsed over, they said it was a heart attack.

He never left the house until that night. It was the first time in years. I don’t even know how he made it out past the locks I put up.

Dr. Cotts: Locks?

Samantha: Yeah. He started sleepwalking. I was worried.

-

Eloise cooks a lot of meat, she really enjoys it, and it’s never been a problem before. She cooks other foods that I eat, sides like potatoes, and noodles. She makes bread a lot, a staple around here. Sometimes it’s oats, but there’s pickled eggs, and cheeses. Normal foods, and we always eat amicably together despite my different diet. I would never disparage her for hers, and she’s not done the same to me. Only offering every time she makes it, as if I’ll change my mind, offering a little more insistently lately as my eyes catch on the steaming pile of steak, sausage, or bacon. Whatever she’s having.

I can’t help it, my stomach gnaws, hungry.

Despite the nausea I’ve been suffering from lately, the exhaustion, sore back, tired feet. The meat always seems so appetizing. It’s never bothered me quite like this before. Tonight is no exception. I’ve just come from Samantha’s place, and the darkness of day and night is easier in Eloise’s light filled kitchen. Food cooking, candles lit, and the fire going in the living room. Her easy smile, and even easier conversation is familiar and this place is starting to feel like some kind of bizarre home.

I still put the chair up against my door, and I find the dreams are increasing in frequency and terror, but her place is part of the few comforts I have, despite it all.

“How is Samantha? I knew her mother once.” Eloise says wistfully as she puts the food onto the table, it’s steaming. The meat is rare, I should be revolted, I should be turning my nose up at it, but instead my gaze lingers, my mouth waters. My usually queasy stomach abates to pure deep raw hunger instead.

The steaks are juicy, looking fresh, despite being cooked from frozen.

“Would you like one, dear?” Eloise says, noticing by gaze again. Her smile is large, teeth whiter than I remember. She’s a habitual tea drinker, they’ve always been stained yellow, haven’t they?

“N- No. I don’t eat meat, but thank you.” I smile tightly, stab my fork into some potatoes instead. The smell curls into me, and the taste of potatoes is pure starch. I gag on it, and put my fork back down. I push my plate of food away instinctively. I feel sick.

“Oh, Laura, dear, you look positively pale. You must eat, dear. Please, I won’t tell, just a couple bites of it, hm?” She pushes the plate of steaks in front of me.

I open my mouth to tell her that I won’t eat meat again, but my tastebuds catch the aroma, and I feel faint. So hungry.

My fingers curl, and uncurl, I want it so bad. I’ve never wanted anything so much before.

I’m outside of my body, I’m reaching out to the meat with bare hands.

Mine.

I blink and several maggots wiggle along the meat, it startles me so severely I’m already standing up from my chair, my hand batting at it like a spider appearing next to me suddenly. The plate and meat go flying. It shatters on the ground, and juice splashes.

I’m breathing so heavily, staring with wide terrified eyes, wanting to vomit again.

I look closely, walking over to it, bending down, hand reached out, but there’s no maggots. It’s just two perfect steaks in a sea of broken dish pieces.

Eloise’s hand comes down on mine hard, slapping it like you would a toddler. I look up at her, and she’s smiling, gently, but it’s creased up in the corners in a way that seems oddly large and tight, I shiver. I’m a little stuck, a little frozen.

“Careful, dear. It wouldn’t be good to hurt yourself in your condition. Go on up to your room, I’ll take care of this. I’ll bring up some soup.” She says, hand curling around mine now, rubbing gently.

I feel sicker, not really there, as I find myself listening to her.

I move in slow motion upstairs, wondering what is wrong with me as I slip into the bathroom. I splash cold water on my face as her words go around and around in my head.

‘my condition?’

Nausea rears its head in, and I’m scrambling to the toilet, almost too late as I empty pure bile.

It hits me then, harder than bricks, like a house collapsing onto me.

My period is late. I thought it was stress, the environment. It’s happened before when I was younger, in med school. I didn’t think much of it. But it’s a little more than late this time. This time it’s been two weeks.

Shakily, I get to my feet, and find my pale face reflecting back at me in the mirror with dark circles under my eyes, and sweat beading down my forehead. There’s a look there in my eyes too. One of true, abject terror. White knuckles gripping the edge of the bathroom sink as the undeniable truth washes over me.

I’m pregnant.

I’m sure of it.

I’m not proud of it, I’m really ashamed, but in that moment, I can’t help the thought that consumed me. An inescapable dread washing over me, as I voice it silently in my mind, eyes on my stomach, what if you’re hungry too?

-Dr. Laura Cotts

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

Colten’s hand is so cold. His face is pale, just like the rest of him, and he looks smaller somehow. Like he lost weight, like he’s fading away. He’s just a body now, but he looks like he’s dying all over again. Like the last parts of him are slipping away from my grasp. I hold on tighter because of it, I cling to him, I want to apologize, but I can’t. The words die on my tongue, lodged in my throat, they’re stuck there. They can’t get out.

Across from him, above his head are the cold metal doors of the morgue, where other bodies lay waiting inside. Amy. Dr. Schile. The small little slips in the corners hold the index card with their names, date of birth and death, and a small context to their last moments. The cause of death determined without autopsy, only a preliminary post-mortem examination. I didn’t see the point in cutting them open, taking that last bit of dignity from them, I’ve already done enough.

“There you are, I was looking all over.” Grahm’s voice startles me a little, but I don’t show it outwardly, I don’t even turn around. Instead, I get up slowly, and lean over Colten’s body, my lips press into his hair, cold, like ice. I shiver.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say silently.

I turn my head, ready to walk away, but the shiver rattles inside me, spreads dangerously across my body. My heart begins to pound, and I feel light-headed, and dizzy, and terrified in the next breath as Colten’s voice echoes in the room, “I just wanted a friend. Why didn’t he want to be mine?”

“Dr. Cotts?” Grahm says, gently.

I’m halfway between them, eyes on the titled ground, body trembling.

That’s not right.

My feet aren’t wearing any shoes, or socks. They’re barefoot, and cold. I curl them and uncurl them. Where did my shoes go? My socks? It should be colder on the floor, shouldn’t it?

I realize then that nobody is speaking, the morgue is cold, and empty. I look up quickly, but Colten’s body is gone, I turn sharply, and Grahm is gone too. I scramble to the metal doors, and pull them open for each one that says, Amy, and then Dr. Theodore Schile.

They are all empty too, my heart is racing, where did they go?

A whistle, a tune humming through the corridors somewhere outside the door shut tightly. The glass window above isn’t clear, it’s shades of white, a privacy setting, but I can make out the soft outline of the corridor behind it. The shadows that begin to move.

The footsteps coming closer, and closer, as that humming tune gets louder and louder.

The whistling is right behind me.

It stops when I realize that, and with my heart so loud in my throat, I turn slowly only to feel hot breath on my ear, painting deliberately along my neck.

The smell is rotting.

Acidic.

Like sulfur.

I try to clear my throat, I try to ask it something, I can’t.

It doesn’t get closer, like it can’t either.

As if its waiting for something, I don’t know what, because as soon as I become determined to look, I wake up.

-

“Hey, hey, you’re okay. Laura, it’s okay. It’s okay, you were dreaming. You’re alright, hush now. I’ve got you, it’s Grahm, remember? We’re at the clinic.” Grahm’s voice is warm, soothing, it envelopes me and helps my heart to slow down somewhat as it threatens to beat right out of my chest. My hands are flailing, my body buzzing under the adrenaline. I’m blinking away the blurred images of a dream that was so clear, so full of every sense, it had to be real.

“It wasn’t.” Grahm says, as if he can read my mind. “Laura, it wasn’t real.”

His fingers are gripping into my shoulder, and I’m breathing heavily as I finally slow my movements, becoming still. I look up to him, and see him exaggerating his own deep and slow breaths. I quickly follow, my brown hair loose against my face, half fallen out from the bun I had it up in earlier.

I’m on something soft, the chair in my office, I realize. I fell asleep while I was going over Trinity’s file. I look down, and see it scattered across the carpet. It’s strange that I didn’t wake up from that noise alone, I’m not usually so deep a sleeper.

“I’m fine. I’m awake.” I say.

I want to ask him how he knows it wasn’t real, but such a question feels silly, and like I’m admitting to something that has a depth to it I dare not reach.

“Good.” Grahm nods, thumb rubbing along my shoulder, eyes furrowed, so close I can taste him. Too close, I pull away gently as the guilt stabs fresh and anew. He lets go easily, and we part. Him, taking a few steps back, me leaning down to gather the papers. Soon, he kneels down and helps gather them too.

It’s while we’re doing this task that I realize how quiet it is, how the war cries that were so loud before, have simply vanished. The drumming is gone too. Even Trinity is quiet.

“How long was I asleep?” I ask, feeling my bladder full and painful, mouth dry and with a bad taste. Like boiled eggs.

At this question, Grahm looks hesitant, eyes shifty as we finish gathering the file. I place it on the desk, eyebrow raised.

“Fourteen hours.” He admits.

I feel stricken by this information, and a little shocked. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

Grahm’s face looks a little pained. “You needed it, and those cries we’re going to stop for a while.”

“Grahm-”

“I was waking you up now, and it’s a good thing I did, you didn’t look… well.” He says, eyes growing more concerned by the moment.

“I’m fine.” I assure, pushing my hair back behind my ears, nose twitching at the familiar welcome scent of coffee. I look around and find a steaming cup on my desk.

“Black, right?” He says.

I hum. “Thank you. I should check on Trinity first.”

“She’s fine, been sleeping too.”

“Just give me a minute, and I’ll go see her.”

“Of course, but Laura, there’s something we have to discuss.”

“What is it?” I ask, hesitant and unsure.

“It’s something that we should all talk about. Brad and Beth included.” Grahm pushes.

I nod. “Fine. Just give me a few minutes to freshen up, and then check on Trinity.”

Grahm agrees easily, leaving me to it. I take a sip of coffee, a littler desperately, and it helps somewhat with my still trembling hands. Next is the bathroom, and I shudder at my own  reflection when my eyes turn up to the mirrored image on full display. Despite the fourteen hours of sleep, my eyes are a little bloodshot, hair a mess, and light makeup smeared.

I use the toilet, fix myself up as best as I can, and gravitate to the coffee once more, but not before hesitantly putting up the hand towel over top of the mirror. Edges tucked in just so.

I take my coffee with me, heart jumping a little at the soft sounds of music playing through the clinic, getting louder and louder until I reach the exam room. The music is coming from inside. I leave my coffee outside on a nearby cupboard, and move into the room where Trinity is staying. Brad gives me a tired nod, and moves out of the way as I examine her, my eyes shifting to the older looking radio on the sink counter playing the unmistakable, ‘Out of Nowhere.’ Having listened to the radio too much with Eloise, and her small stories about the songs playing and the memories they remind her of, I’ve grown accustomed to figuring out the title from the tune.

“How are you feeling, Trinity?” I ask, carefully.

She doesn’t say anything, her eyes are dulled, hung low into her bottom lid of her eyes. She just watches me, moving where I move, blinking when I blink.

“Has she eaten anything?” I ask, even as I notice the IV.

Beth has been giving her nutrients this way, and liquids.

“No, Dr. Cotts, she throws everything we give her.” Brad says. “Thankfully, the radio seems to do the trick for her temper. Calms her.”

“Alright.” I say, worry filling me. I don’t want to start an NG tube, but if I have to, I suppose there’s no other choice. “There was something you wanted to discuss with me?”

“Let’s step out, Linda is here- uh, Dr. Schile’s wife, to look after her. We called her in, she’s a retired nurse. We need all the help we can get.” Brad says.

I move with him, just as an older woman, sixties or seventies moves to go into the room. Her face doesn’t show grief, instead a strong countenance permeates along a stiff jaw. Her eyes don’t glance at me, and I feel uncomfortable, guilty, and unsure all at once. I feel young, and small. She doesn’t even say hi.

We step into the reception area of the clinic, all four of us, but I can tell that the three of them have already discussed whatever it is. Their eyes turn to me, and I feel more like an outsider than ever. Worse than my first day, because now I’m not in the know. And I want to know, I need to. I have so many questions, but I let them speak first.

“The power cut out again for about six hours while you were sleeping.” Beth says bluntly.

“As you know, this happens all the time, Dr. Cotts.” Brad chimes in. “But with the situation now, it’s uh, more dire. We have a back-up generator here, enough gas in the stores for the winter, but Dr. Schile and I did the calculations without realizing the circumstances we’d be facing.”

“What do you mean?” I inquire.

“We can’t store the world here, is what he means.” Beth says, voice a little anxious. “What it means is that we were never meant to power the whole clinic indefinitely on the generator, maybe the small supply room, yes, but not the morgue which sucks out the most of what we’ve got.”

My heart sinks a little, as I realize what they’re getting at. “The bodies… they’ll start…” Decomposing.

“We need to survive first, and foremost.” Brad says. “But, of course I understand, Beth that he was practically your father.”

“Wait, what are you saying?” I ask, completely baffled. “Can’t we just bury them?”

Three pairs of eyes turn to me, and I feel my skin flush.

“The ground is frozen, we don’t have that kind of equipment.” Grahm says gently. “We should do what we’ve always done.”

Beth’s eyes well up in tears, her head shaking quickly in denial. “We can’t- We can’t-” Her voice shakes, and penetrates sharply into my chest. Her grief is raw, and real, and child-like. She swallows it down, and continues with, “We can’t, you know we can’t.”

“What have you always done?” I ask, first.

Grahm looks to me, and explains calmly, despite that one of those bodies is Amy, “We have a place. A death house, most communities like ours have them. This far North, it was necessary before electricity. It’s cold enough outside to keep them there until spring when the ground can be dug again.”

“It’s secure.” Brad says, eyes on Beth, hand reaching to her shoulder. She shakes it off, clearly still upset by the thought. “We’ll lock it up real good this time, I promise. Beth, we need to think about everyone else, okay?”

“I’m not doing this.” She shakes her head, quickly. “You know what will happen.”

Her lip trembles, but she pushes it away as she storms off back down the hall. I’m not sure where she went, to see Trinity, to go into Dr. Schile’s office, maybe the breakroom. Maybe the bathroom to cry in peace. I let her go, even though I feel like I want to go after her. The problem in front of us is far more important.

“What does she mean?” I can’t help but ask, my heart in my stomach a little at the way she worded it.

Brad’s eyes shift away. “Nothing.”

Grahm looks torn. “I’ll explain later. For right now, we have to do this quickly. All the signs outside point towards an incoming storm.”

“Are we doing this ourselves?” I ask.

“We’ve got a few men coming to help.” Brad interrupts, nodding quickly. “You can stay behind if you want.”

“No, I should go.” I tell him. “I can help you decide where the best place is to put them, and it’s the least I can do.”

At my words, we hear the sound of a truck pulling up.

-

We don’t have time to make any sort of coffin, so instead we wrap them up securely in blankets. I handle that part with Brad, and even though Grahm says he’s fine, I don’t let him see Amy. It’s too horrific. Her eyes stare at me as I do the work, but I don’t let it get to me. I have a job to do, I can think about it later.

The men that come to help are Dakota Nelsen, Ross Lindbeck- Mr. Lindbeck’s cousin, Niel McKay a thirty-five-year-old miner, and Trent Campbell in his late twenties, Beth’s second or third cousin. I greet them all, and they nod towards me. It doesn’t go unnoticed that every single man is armed, even Dakota. None of them are patients of mine except for Dakota, and what I know of his history he shouldn’t be armed at all. But, I hold my tongue. For some reason, this feels important. In some ways that makes it easier as we load the bodies onto the back of Grahm’s truck, a faint stench of rot in the air I try not to think about. It’s completely dark after all, even the few streetlights are flickering worn and tired as we drive the short distance to the outskirts of town. It’s on the other side, right next to the cemetery.

All the graves look old, and worn, like they’ve stood here a few hundred years. But it’s the tall, wide building next to it that makes do a double take. It looks newer, maybe only a few decades, but it’s got very nice brickwork on the outside, no windows, no chimney. Just a structure. Inside it’s lined with wood that’s old and aging, and I wonder if the original building was wood first, and then reinforced later. Although, it would make more sense to keep it wood, to let the cold air come and go more easily, to have preserve the bodies. Strange, it’s almost like a fortress now.

“Father couldn’t be here.” Niel says as we finish.

I pull I my hood tighter over my features as Brad chains the door up with extra padlocks.

“Father?” I question.

“The new Reverend.” Grahm tells me.

I nod, easily, and wrack my brain for his name as I follow everyone back to our vehicles. Brad jumps into Grahm’s truck with me, as the others head into the other truck belonging to Ross. They mentioned it on Saltpine’s radio, Pastor Riddence, as far as I remember.

As we drive back, shivering slightly once the warm air begins to hit our numbed bodies, I ask the question I’ve meaning to since yesterday.

“Why war cries?” I say into the once comfortable silence, but as soon as my words are out, it becomes tense, overheated even, despite the shivering. Despite the warmth not quite reaching us.

Grahm’s eyes look into the mirror, peeking to the back where Brad sits. They both have a silent conversation I’m not privy too.

Eventually, Grahm smiles, tightly. “It’s just the local tribe. They do it around this time to ward off bad spirits.”

I’m not so easily dissuaded, nor am I that ignorant by such empty words.

War cries mean war. Physical violence. They are completely different from spiritual ceremonies that focus on the spirits. Lisa knew a lot about it, but before I knew her, I had my grandmother. She was determined to take back her heritage when she found out the ugly family secret of her birth. I only met her a few times, but it’s all she talked about. All she tried to impart on me. At the time, I was angry with her. My mother was always bruised when she took me, why didn’t she help her? Why didn’t she help us?

She died before I realized that it was my mom who took after her a little too much.

I glance briefly back to Brad, and smile with a small understanding nod. I play the innocent.

I look back to Grahm as he drives, and see the way his face is tight, the way his fingers grip the steering wheel even more taunt. He’ll tell me, when we’re alone. I know he wants answers just as much as me. I know he has more of them than he’s given me so far. I know he wants to tell me, I know he wants the truth too.

-

“We’ll take shifts, just drop me home for now, and I’ll come back up in the morning.” Brad tells Grahm as we drive towards his residence. It’s part of the small building that can’t quite be called a police station, it’s more of an RCMP outpost, but from the outside it just looks like a slightly larger house. It’s what passes for law enforcement here, more than most get.

“Sounds good.” Grahm says, nodding.

Brad gives him another look, pointed and charged, and I know it must be about me. About the secrets of Saltpine, I’m beginning to realize aren’t far and few between like I originally assumed. I won’t make that mistake again.

“Tell me.” I say, desperately as the door barely shuts behind Brad, the faint stench of that rot is still there. It seems even stronger now, I’m not sure why, maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s lingering from my dreams. I don’t know. I only know it smells like whatever breath was on my neck, whatever presence was so close, yet untouched.

“Let me drive you home.” Grahm evades. “You need some rest, and I’ll- I’ll tell you on the way.”

“You can drive me back, but I won’t be staying, if there’s really a storm, I can’t leave Trinity alone like that.” I tell him.

He nods. “I’ll come get you before it hits, but you really need to rest, Laura. Please.”

I dislike him telling me what to do, but I dislike the tone of his voice more, as if he has some authority here, some say it. As if because of what we did, he has some power over me, of persuasion, or worse.

“Tell me about the war cries, and I’ll stay a couple hours, but only if you come and get me before the storm hits.” I bargain, too tired, exhausted, and frankly over it to argue too much. I need to go there anyway, my DSM manual was left behind there. I don’t have a copy at the clinic. I should, but I don’t. I need to look more into Trinity’s symptoms, I need to be sure. If I could I’d order a tox screen, if I could I’d do a lot of things. But of course, there’s no lab in Saltpine, no equipment. This is the best I can do.

Grahm’s hands curl and tighten around the steering wheel. “Okay.” He nods to himself. “Alright, I’ll show you.”

I don’t know what that means, it’s not only confusing, but my heart also falls down into my gut when he abruptly pulls the truck over in some residential street. His headlights shine down on houses as he half turns towards them. For a moment I’m sacred he’s losing it too.

“What are you doing?” I say, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

“Look.” He says.

I gulp, confused, uncertain, and a little scared. But I listen, face turning towards the houses, eyes glancing into the half-dark now somewhat illuminated by the headlights. There are no lights coming from the houses, Brad said it was night right now. I haven’t even checked. It doesn’t feel like night or day, it just feels like an endless existing. Like a black purgatory, no end or beginning. But that can’t be right. There always has to be a beginning, an end.

My eyes adjust, and I blink, startled.

“Is that…?” I strain my eyes even more, and feel the first pits of nausea building sharply in my gut. I swallow back the bile. I can’t remember the last time I ate.

“Yeah.” Grahm says, shakily. “Yes, it’s- It’s exactly what you’re thinking.”

My eyes train from one doorstep to the next, moving from left to right, straining my eyes as far as I can, but it’s on every doorstep. Every house. Varying degrees of decomposition, of type of animal, but each one has one. A dead animal on their doorstep.

Some skinned, some whole. All raw.

Some with eyes reflected in the headlights, glaring faintly, others nothing but endless black.

“Please, just keep driving.” I beg, feeling my control slipping, I really am going to be sick.

Grahm does, sighing heavily. “It’s not as bad as it looks. It’s just… tradition.”

“Tradition.” I echo, holding back the urge to throw up.

“Yeah.”

I look to him out of the corner of my eyes, and suddenly feel uncertain for the first since I’ve met him. Do I really know anything about Special Constable Grahm Sullivan? Is he a good guy? A bad guy? Has he ever been honest with him? Do I really even know him at all?

My eyes turn to the door of the truck even as it moves at a steady pace that would be dangerous to fall from. My heart speeds up, my hand casually rests on the door handle.

“Can you explain it to me?” I say, voice far more calmer than I feel.

Grahm sighs a little. “They’re stories, legends, remember? I mentioned it before.”

“Yeah, I remember.” I feel a little more relaxed despite myself. “You never explained them before. Can you explain them now?”

We’re almost at Eloise’s, we turn down the familiar street, but the nausea doesn’t quite go away. Instead, it grows worse.

“It’s a silly story, really. Everyone has myths about why the sun disappears, things we told each other before science and reason.” Grahm says.

His words put me more at ease, and I can tell that he believes in the science part more, but there’s an undeniable edge to his voice when says those middle words. About myths. About the sun. About everything that comes next.

“Ours say that, the one, stands up during this time because it grows hungry. It’s winter, Laura, there’s nothing to eat, not much to hunt. The sun goes out because he’s standing up, and he’s looking for food. So, we leave some out, to appease the one. So, he’ll become full, and sit back down. So that the sun can come back. It’s superstition, that’s all it is.” Grahm’s smiling tightly at me, like he really believes it, like he’ll do whatever it takes to believe it. But underneath his smile, I see a faint tremble, I see youthful fear. Like a child’s nightmares that will always haunt them, even when they disappear for a while.

“What is the one?” I ask, gently as we stop outside Eloise’s home. “Is it, like a god?”

I feel it rising within me, the sick feeling, but I push it away. I need to be stronger than that. I need to understand what he’s Grahm is saying. I don’t actually believe it, it’s preposterous, but it might have some insight into the resident’s of Saltpine’s state of mind. The content of delusions come from somewhere. It would be irresponsible not to try, and find out where. To understand it better, so I can help them.

Grahm’s face is pale now, even his lips are losing blood as he smiles thinly. “More like, it’s child.”

-

Eloise has a dead chicken on her doorstep when I get out of the truck. I wisely decide not to comment on it.

-

After a sleepless night of going over and over the DSM III-R, I find myself waiting at the front door for Grahm again. It’s only been a few hours, but it feels like days. Despite sleeping so much yesterday, I am so tired. Achy all over. I feel it like a heaviness I’ll never get out from under. I know what this is, seasonal affective disorder. It’s plain as day, but it still is hard to swallow.

Eloise makes a big breakfast, lots of meat, and I feel hungrier than ever. I stick with my eggs and toast, and some coffee. Although for the first time in a while, I’m pretty tempted by the bacon she cooks, and two different kinds of sausage.

“That will be Grahm.” I say when the truck rumbles in.

“Of course, dear, please do be careful, and send Trinity my well wishes.” Eloise sees me off at the door.

I smile, and nod.

When I step outside though, the large winter jacket swallowing me up, I find my eyes widening in slight disbelief. The dead chicken is gone, and stench of rot is only a faint remanent. My eyes strain in the dark again, the lights from the houses helping, the head lights of Grahm’s truck more so, as I look from doorstep to doorstep.

All the dead animals that were there only a few hours ago, are all gone.

Some have faint bloodied marks left behind, most have nothing.

I look around the yards, thinking the wind must have moved them, but they’re gone. Only a thin layer of fresh snow that keeps growing thicker as the storm approaches, no outline of them either.

Predators? Perhaps, but why didn’t I hear a thing last night?

Shakily, I stumble to the truck, and get in, heart hammering.

“Did you sleep?” Grahm asks politely, but there’s a sharper tone to his voice that I’ve never heard before.

I look up to him, and see his skin still pale, eyes bloodshot, looking slightly perturbed. “All the dead animals are gone.”

He says nothing for a while, eyes staring out into the road, eerily silent until, “Yeah, that happens too. Must be animals, right?” He smiles tightly, as if he’s told this excuse a million times. As if he’s starting to finally see the flaws in the argument of it all.

“I-” I stop myself, as I remember quite suddenly Beth’s words from last night. My eyes widen, and I can tell already that Grahm knows what I’m thinking, that’s he’s been thinking the exact same thing all night long.

After all, one of those bodies was his wife.

“Take me to the cemetery.” I say, voice shaking, I’m shaking.

I feel scared, terrified, even.

Not because of the myth he told me, but because of everything that has happened so far. Because of the off-putting unlikeliness of what is happening all around us. It’s not normal, it’s completely unnatural. All my hair stands on end.

Grahm looks like he wants to argue, does a little with his eyes, but then as exhausted and tired as I am, seemingly doesn’t see the point in it. He starts driving.

My eyes turn to the houses that pass by helplessly, and as the residents of Saltpine wake up, turning on their lights that still work for the moment, I see the faint outline of empty doorsteps that were once full of rotting animals not a few hours ago.

Maybe I didn’t see it right, maybe there weren’t dead animals there.

No, there were.

What am I even thinking?

It takes no time at all before we’re there, at the cemetery, passed the graves, right to the death house where the doors that were once chained and locked extra tightly, and securely by RCMP Officer Davidson himself, are now swinging open in the slow gradual build of a wind of another, more fierce oncoming winter storm.

“Laura, wait.” Grahm says.

He’s scarcely stopped the truck when I’ve already got the door flying open. My feet hitting the snow harshly, half-running towards the building. The headlights shine on it, lighting it up clearly, but it’s not until Grahm stands beside me, flashlight pointed inward that I see the absence of Colten, Amy, and Dr. Schile.

The blankets I painstakingly wrapped them in, laying on the ground, flailing slightly in the wind. Robes and ties, scattered. But that’s not the most frightening part.

My heart gives a start when my eyes move from those objects on the ground inward, to the outward, to where the doorway is, leading right into the freshly laid snow.

Our footprints are long gone, and in their place there are three new pairs imprinted in the harsh white. But they’re only going in one direction. They’re only going out.

-Dr. Laura Cotts

On a cold April night in 1991, the residents of Saltpine slipped out of their homes, like phantoms in the night. They put on their boots, dressed in their winter jackets, and held their babies in their arms, leaving the front door open behind them, every single door left wide open, and slipped into the woods behind the small town. One by one, walking through a path deep into the woods where they simply vanished without a trace.

All five hundred and seventy-three residents.

Their footprints in the snow were unfortunately covered up by the blizzard that hit first thing in the morning. Which prevented me, the five hundred and seventy-fourth resident to make it back.

I wasn’t in the woods; I wasn’t anywhere near the town. I was in the city, a few hours drive South where I was called in on an emergency case. Now, the city has more psychiatrists and doctors than most places, but the province is short on doctors as it is, and this case was special. I had treated her before, and she was asking for me, I felt obligated, and the weather finally permitted it, spring was coming back.

I saw no reason not to go.

Up until that blizzard.

The blizzard wasn’t even supposed to happen, it just did. One of those freak Canadian weather instances that no one can predict.

Maybe if it didn’t happen, maybe if I got there sooner, maybe I could have found them. I could have gotten more help; their footprints would have been found. Some trace of them.

Or, maybe, I could have stopped them.

But what’s one person against a town?

I swear, I didn’t know this was going to happen, and no matter what anyone else says about me, I had no indication of any mass psychosis in this town. Sure, there were some extreme cases, and yes there was an unusually high number of psychiatric patients, but other than that, I saw no warning signs. Nothing for something like this, something to this magnitude.

I’m just as baffled, and shocked as everyone else.

It’s easy to blame me, I know, and I feel the guilt like tons of rocks stoning me. So much so, sleeping has gotten worse, especially in the last few years as it weighs more heavily on me. Eating is hard, and even existing feels like I’m fading away. After all, these people were under my care. I was supposed to help them. That’s why I came to Saltpine in the first place.

I’m a doctor, a psychiatrist, how could I not see this coming?

I’m writing this, because I need answers, just like everyone else. And I am aware, that I have a unique position, and insight into the community in this town. Out of the five hundred and seventy-three residents of Saltpine at the time of their disappearance, one hundred and eighty-two people were under psychiatric care at the time of my arrival.

During that long Winter of 1990/1991, they were under my psychiatric care.

Before I came, their main doctors in the city would either come and visit the town once a month, or they would drive to the city to see them. If that was not possible, consultation by phone took place with the only doctor of permanent residence in the town, Dr. Schile, in attendance. A family doctor who was sixty-seven at that time, during that winter.

As one can imagine, this situation was anything but ideal.

As the winters have grown harsher, phone service has become spotty on the best of days, and after the suicide in the winter of 1989/1990, it became apparent that a more experienced doctor was needed throughout the winter where Seasonal Affective Disorder hit hard in a community where the sun would only rise for a short period out of the day for several months, and than that precarious time for a few weeks where it would stop rising altogether.

The job promised great benefits, a place to stay without the cost of living, food included, and pay that was above normal average wages, even for a doctor. An incentive, the government called it, part of a doctor to northern reaches program.

The money was great for me, young as I was just coming out of school, but that’s not why I took the position.

It was the northern part of it that drew me in. Somewhere far from home, a place to start over, to get away.

And honestly? I thought I could do some good.

How naïve, I know.

Looking back, I really was.

I had no idea what I was getting into. No idea the kinds of cases I would be seeing, no idea that they would creep into me, like a snake slithering its way into my chest. It still hisses here, it still rattles, it has me in a vice-grip, it won’t let go. I can’t sleep, eat, exist without its reminder. And lately, it’s been constricting.

I want to know what happened that night.

I want to understand the signs I missed.

I need to know what I did wrong.

So, I’m writing this, to share what I can, to make sense of it. Maybe you can make some sense of it, too. Because, frankly, I’m at a loss.

I’m typing up my case notes with the residents, slowly and surely, I’ll be posting the transcripts of some of our sessions, and my own recollections to the best of my ability.

I will be omitting patient names for privacy, but permission has been granted by the few family members that weren’t living in Saltpine for them to be made public in the hope for answers, as for the rest, there’s no one left to mourn them. Let alone to care about their dignity.

I may get in trouble for it, I could lose my medical licence, but you get to a point sometimes, where the truth is far more important than what the medical licensing board can do to you. And after so many years of trying to bury this, I’m ready to stop.

To the five hundred and seventy-three residents of Saltpine, I’m sorry I failed you.

But that stops now.

-Dr. Laura Cotts

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

Colten’s hand is so cold. His face is pale, just like the rest of him, and he looks smaller somehow. Like he lost weight, like he’s fading away. He’s just a body now, but he looks like he’s dying all over again. Like the last parts of him are slipping away from my grasp. I hold on tighter because of it, I cling to him, I want to apologize, but I can’t. The words die on my tongue, lodged in my throat, they’re stuck there. They can’t get out.

Across from him, above his head are the cold metal doors of the morgue, where other bodies lay waiting inside. Amy. Dr. Schile. The small little slips in the corners hold the index card with their names, date of birth and death, and a small context to their last moments. The cause of death determined without autopsy, only a preliminary post-mortem examination. I didn’t see the point in cutting them open, taking that last bit of dignity from them, I’ve already done enough.

“There you are, I was looking all over.” Grahm’s voice startles me a little, but I don’t show it outwardly, I don’t even turn around. Instead, I get up slowly, and lean over Colten’s body, my lips press into his hair, cold, like ice. I shiver.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say silently.

I turn my head, ready to walk away, but the shiver rattles inside me, spreads dangerously across my body. My heart begins to pound, and I feel light-headed, and dizzy, and terrified in the next breath as Colten’s voice echoes in the room, “I just wanted a friend. Why didn’t he want to be mine?”

“Dr. Cotts?” Grahm says, gently.

I’m halfway between them, eyes on the titled ground, body trembling.

That’s not right.

My feet aren’t wearing any shoes, or socks. They’re barefoot, and cold. I curl them and uncurl them. Where did my shoes go? My socks? It should be colder on the floor, shouldn’t it?

I realize then that nobody is speaking, the morgue is cold, and empty. I look up quickly, but Colten’s body is gone, I turn sharply, and Grahm is gone too. I scramble to the metal doors, and pull them open for each one that says, Amy, and then Dr. Theodore Schile.

They are all empty too, my heart is racing, where did they go?

A whistle, a tune humming through the corridors somewhere outside the door shut tightly. The glass window above isn’t clear, it’s shades of white, a privacy setting, but I can make out the soft outline of the corridor behind it. The shadows that begin to move.

The footsteps coming closer, and closer, as that humming tune gets louder and louder.

The whistling is right behind me.

It stops when I realize that, and with my heart so loud in my throat, I turn slowly only to feel hot breath on my ear, painting deliberately along my neck.

The smell is rotting.

Acidic.

Like sulfur.

I try to clear my throat, I try to ask it something, I can’t.

It doesn’t get closer, like it can’t either.

As if its waiting for something, I don’t know what, because as soon as I become determined to look, I wake up.

-

“Hey, hey, you’re okay. Laura, it’s okay. It’s okay, you were dreaming. You’re alright, hush now. I’ve got you, it’s Grahm, remember? We’re at the clinic.” Grahm’s voice is warm, soothing, it envelopes me and helps my heart to slow down somewhat as it threatens to beat right out of my chest. My hands are flailing, my body buzzing under the adrenaline. I’m blinking away the blurred images of a dream that was so clear, so full of every sense, it had to be real.

“It wasn’t.” Grahm says, as if he can read my mind. “Laura, it wasn’t real.”

His fingers are gripping into my shoulder, and I’m breathing heavily as I finally slow my movements, becoming still. I look up to him, and see him exaggerating his own deep and slow breaths. I quickly follow, my brown hair loose against my face, half fallen out from the bun I had it up in earlier.

I’m on something soft, the chair in my office, I realize. I fell asleep while I was going over Trinity’s file. I look down, and see it scattered across the carpet. It’s strange that I didn’t wake up from that noise alone, I’m not usually so deep a sleeper.

“I’m fine. I’m awake.” I say.

I want to ask him how he knows it wasn’t real, but such a question feels silly, and like I’m admitting to something that has a depth to it I dare not reach.

“Good.” Grahm nods, thumb rubbing along my shoulder, eyes furrowed, so close I can taste him. Too close, I pull away gently as the guilt stabs fresh and anew. He lets go easily, and we part. Him, taking a few steps back, me leaning down to gather the papers. Soon, he kneels down and helps gather them too.

It’s while we’re doing this task that I realize how quiet it is, how the war cries that were so loud before, have simply vanished. The drumming is gone too. Even Trinity is quiet.

“How long was I asleep?” I ask, feeling my bladder full and painful, mouth dry and with a bad taste. Like boiled eggs.

At this question, Grahm looks hesitant, eyes shifty as we finish gathering the file. I place it on the desk, eyebrow raised.

“Fourteen hours.” He admits.

I feel stricken by this information, and a little shocked. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

Grahm’s face looks a little pained. “You needed it, and those cries we’re going to stop for a while.”

“Grahm-”

“I was waking you up now, and it’s a good thing I did, you didn’t look… well.” He says, eyes growing more concerned by the moment.

“I’m fine.” I assure, pushing my hair back behind my ears, nose twitching at the familiar welcome scent of coffee. I look around and find a steaming cup on my desk.

“Black, right?” He says.

I hum. “Thank you. I should check on Trinity first.”

“She’s fine, been sleeping too.”

“Just give me a minute, and I’ll go see her.”

“Of course, but Laura, there’s something we have to discuss.”

“What is it?” I ask, hesitant and unsure.

“It’s something that we should all talk about. Brad and Beth included.” Grahm pushes.

I nod. “Fine. Just give me a few minutes to freshen up, and then check on Trinity.”

Grahm agrees easily, leaving me to it. I take a sip of coffee, a littler desperately, and it helps somewhat with my still trembling hands. Next is the bathroom, and I shudder at my own  reflection when my eyes turn up to the mirrored image on full display. Despite the fourteen hours of sleep, my eyes are a little bloodshot, hair a mess, and light makeup smeared.

I use the toilet, fix myself up as best as I can, and gravitate to the coffee once more, but not before hesitantly putting up the hand towel over top of the mirror. Edges tucked in just so.

I take my coffee with me, heart jumping a little at the soft sounds of music playing through the clinic, getting louder and louder until I reach the exam room. The music is coming from inside. I leave my coffee outside on a nearby cupboard, and move into the room where Trinity is staying. Brad gives me a tired nod, and moves out of the way as I examine her, my eyes shifting to the older looking radio on the sink counter playing the unmistakable, ‘Out of Nowhere.’ Having listened to the radio too much with Eloise, and her small stories about the songs playing and the memories they remind her of, I’ve grown accustomed to figuring out the title from the tune.

“How are you feeling, Trinity?” I ask, carefully.

She doesn’t say anything, her eyes are dulled, hung low into her bottom lid of her eyes. She just watches me, moving where I move, blinking when I blink.

“Has she eaten anything?” I ask, even as I notice the IV.

Beth has been giving her nutrients this way, and liquids.

“No, Dr. Cotts, she throws everything we give her.” Brad says. “Thankfully, the radio seems to do the trick for her temper. Calms her.”

“Alright.” I say, worry filling me. I don’t want to start an NG tube, but if I have to, I suppose there’s no other choice. “There was something you wanted to discuss with me?”

“Let’s step out, Linda is here- uh, Dr. Schile’s wife, to look after her. We called her in, she’s a retired nurse. We need all the help we can get.” Brad says.

I move with him, just as an older woman, sixties or seventies moves to go into the room. Her face doesn’t show grief, instead a strong countenance permeates along a stiff jaw. Her eyes don’t glance at me, and I feel uncomfortable, guilty, and unsure all at once. I feel young, and small. She doesn’t even say hi.

We step into the reception area of the clinic, all four of us, but I can tell that the three of them have already discussed whatever it is. Their eyes turn to me, and I feel more like an outsider than ever. Worse than my first day, because now I’m not in the know. And I want to know, I need to. I have so many questions, but I let them speak first.

“The power cut out again for about six hours while you were sleeping.” Beth says bluntly.

“As you know, this happens all the time, Dr. Cotts.” Brad chimes in. “But with the situation now, it’s uh, more dire. We have a back-up generator here, enough gas in the stores for the winter, but Dr. Schile and I did the calculations without realizing the circumstances we’d be facing.”

“What do you mean?” I inquire.

“We can’t store the world here, is what he means.” Beth says, voice a little anxious. “What it means is that we were never meant to power the whole clinic indefinitely on the generator, maybe the small supply room, yes, but not the morgue which sucks out the most of what we’ve got.”

My heart sinks a little, as I realize what they’re getting at. “The bodies… they’ll start…” Decomposing.

“We need to survive first, and foremost.” Brad says. “But, of course I understand, Beth that he was practically your father.”

“Wait, what are you saying?” I ask, completely baffled. “Can’t we just bury them?”

Three pairs of eyes turn to me, and I feel my skin flush.

“The ground is frozen, we don’t have that kind of equipment.” Grahm says gently. “We should do what we’ve always done.”

Beth’s eyes well up in tears, her head shaking quickly in denial. “We can’t- We can’t-” Her voice shakes, and penetrates sharply into my chest. Her grief is raw, and real, and child-like. She swallows it down, and continues with, “We can’t, you know we can’t.”

“What have you always done?” I ask, first.

Grahm looks to me, and explains calmly, despite that one of those bodies is Amy, “We have a place. A death house, most communities like ours have them. This far North, it was necessary before electricity. It’s cold enough outside to keep them there until spring when the ground can be dug again.”

“It’s secure.” Brad says, eyes on Beth, hand reaching to her shoulder. She shakes it off, clearly still upset by the thought. “We’ll lock it up real good this time, I promise. Beth, we need to think about everyone else, okay?”

“I’m not doing this.” She shakes her head, quickly. “You know what will happen.”

Her lip trembles, but she pushes it away as she storms off back down the hall. I’m not sure where she went, to see Trinity, to go into Dr. Schile’s office, maybe the breakroom. Maybe the bathroom to cry in peace. I let her go, even though I feel like I want to go after her. The problem in front of us is far more important.

“What does she mean?” I can’t help but ask, my heart in my stomach a little at the way she worded it.

Brad’s eyes shift away. “Nothing.”

Grahm looks torn. “I’ll explain later. For right now, we have to do this quickly. All the signs outside point towards an incoming storm.”

“Are we doing this ourselves?” I ask.

“We’ve got a few men coming to help.” Brad interrupts, nodding quickly. “You can stay behind if you want.”

“No, I should go.” I tell him. “I can help you decide where the best place is to put them, and it’s the least I can do.”

At my words, we hear the sound of a truck pulling up.

-

We don’t have time to make any sort of coffin, so instead we wrap them up securely in blankets. I handle that part with Brad, and even though Grahm says he’s fine, I don’t let him see Amy. It’s too horrific. Her eyes stare at me as I do the work, but I don’t let it get to me. I have a job to do, I can think about it later.

The men that come to help are Dakota Nelsen, Ross Lindbeck- Mr. Lindbeck’s cousin, Niel McKay a thirty-five-year-old miner, and Trent Campbell in his late twenties, Beth’s second or third cousin. I greet them all, and they nod towards me. It doesn’t go unnoticed that every single man is armed, even Dakota. None of them are patients of mine except for Dakota, and what I know of his history he shouldn’t be armed at all. But, I hold my tongue. For some reason, this feels important. In some ways that makes it easier as we load the bodies onto the back of Grahm’s truck, a faint stench of rot in the air I try not to think about. It’s completely dark after all, even the few streetlights are flickering worn and tired as we drive the short distance to the outskirts of town. It’s on the other side, right next to the cemetery.

All the graves look old, and worn, like they’ve stood here a few hundred years. But it’s the tall, wide building next to it that makes do a double take. It looks newer, maybe only a few decades, but it’s got very nice brickwork on the outside, no windows, no chimney. Just a structure. Inside it’s lined with wood that’s old and aging, and I wonder if the original building was wood first, and then reinforced later. Although, it would make more sense to keep it wood, to let the cold air come and go more easily, to have preserve the bodies. Strange, it’s almost like a fortress now.

“Father couldn’t be here.” Niel says as we finish.

I pull I my hood tighter over my features as Brad chains the door up with extra padlocks.

“Father?” I question.

“The new Reverend.” Grahm tells me.

I nod, easily, and wrack my brain for his name as I follow everyone back to our vehicles. Brad jumps into Grahm’s truck with me, as the others head into the other truck belonging to Ross. They mentioned it on Saltpine’s radio, Pastor Riddence, as far as I remember.

As we drive back, shivering slightly once the warm air begins to hit our numbed bodies, I ask the question I’ve meaning to since yesterday.

“Why war cries?” I say into the once comfortable silence, but as soon as my words are out, it becomes tense, overheated even, despite the shivering. Despite the warmth not quite reaching us.

Grahm’s eyes look into the mirror, peeking to the back where Brad sits. They both have a silent conversation I’m not privy too.

Eventually, Grahm smiles, tightly. “It’s just the local tribe. They do it around this time to ward off bad spirits.”

I’m not so easily dissuaded, nor am I that ignorant by such empty words.

War cries mean war. Physical violence. They are completely different from spiritual ceremonies that focus on the spirits. Lisa knew a lot about it, but before I knew her, I had my grandmother. She was determined to take back her heritage when she found out the ugly family secret of her birth. I only met her a few times, but it’s all she talked about. All she tried to impart on me. At the time, I was angry with her. My mother was always bruised when she took me, why didn’t she help her? Why didn’t she help us?

She died before I realized that it was my mom who took after her a little too much.

I glance briefly back to Brad, and smile with a small understanding nod. I play the innocent.

I look back to Grahm as he drives, and see the way his face is tight, the way his fingers grip the steering wheel even more taunt. He’ll tell me, when we’re alone. I know he wants answers just as much as me. I know he has more of them than he’s given me so far. I know he wants to tell me, I know he wants the truth too.

-

“We’ll take shifts, just drop me home for now, and I’ll come back up in the morning.” Brad tells Grahm as we drive towards his residence. It’s part of the small building that can’t quite be called a police station, it’s more of an RCMP outpost, but from the outside it just looks like a slightly larger house. It’s what passes for law enforcement here, more than most get.

“Sounds good.” Grahm says, nodding.

Brad gives him another look, pointed and charged, and I know it must be about me. About the secrets of Saltpine, I’m beginning to realize aren’t far and few between like I originally assumed. I won’t make that mistake again.

“Tell me.” I say, desperately as the door barely shuts behind Brad, the faint stench of that rot is still there. It seems even stronger now, I’m not sure why, maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s lingering from my dreams. I don’t know. I only know it smells like whatever breath was on my neck, whatever presence was so close, yet untouched.

“Let me drive you home.” Grahm evades. “You need some rest, and I’ll- I’ll tell you on the way.”

“You can drive me back, but I won’t be staying, if there’s really a storm, I can’t leave Trinity alone like that.” I tell him.

He nods. “I’ll come get you before it hits, but you really need to rest, Laura. Please.”

I dislike him telling me what to do, but I dislike the tone of his voice more, as if he has some authority here, some say it. As if because of what we did, he has some power over me, of persuasion, or worse.

“Tell me about the war cries, and I’ll stay a couple hours, but only if you come and get me before the storm hits.” I bargain, too tired, exhausted, and frankly over it to argue too much. I need to go there anyway, my DSM manual was left behind there. I don’t have a copy at the clinic. I should, but I don’t. I need to look more into Trinity’s symptoms, I need to be sure. If I could I’d order a tox screen, if I could I’d do a lot of things. But of course, there’s no lab in Saltpine, no equipment. This is the best I can do.

Grahm’s hands curl and tighten around the steering wheel. “Okay.” He nods to himself. “Alright, I’ll show you.”

I don’t know what that means, it’s not only confusing, but my heart also falls down into my gut when he abruptly pulls the truck over in some residential street. His headlights shine down on houses as he half turns towards them. For a moment I’m sacred he’s losing it too.

“What are you doing?” I say, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

“Look.” He says.

I gulp, confused, uncertain, and a little scared. But I listen, face turning towards the houses, eyes glancing into the half-dark now somewhat illuminated by the headlights. There are no lights coming from the houses, Brad said it was night right now. I haven’t even checked. It doesn’t feel like night or day, it just feels like an endless existing. Like a black purgatory, no end or beginning. But that can’t be right. There always has to be a beginning, an end.

My eyes adjust, and I blink, startled.

“Is that…?” I strain my eyes even more, and feel the first pits of nausea building sharply in my gut. I swallow back the bile. I can’t remember the last time I ate.

“Yeah.” Grahm says, shakily. “Yes, it’s- It’s exactly what you’re thinking.”

My eyes train from one doorstep to the next, moving from left to right, straining my eyes as far as I can, but it’s on every doorstep. Every house. Varying degrees of decomposition, of type of animal, but each one has one. A dead animal on their doorstep.

Some skinned, some whole. All raw.

Some with eyes reflected in the headlights, glaring faintly, others nothing but endless black.

“Please, just keep driving.” I beg, feeling my control slipping, I really am going to be sick.

Grahm does, sighing heavily. “It’s not as bad as it looks. It’s just… tradition.”

“Tradition.” I echo, holding back the urge to throw up.

“Yeah.”

I look to him out of the corner of my eyes, and suddenly feel uncertain for the first since I’ve met him. Do I really know anything about Special Constable Grahm Sullivan? Is he a good guy? A bad guy? Has he ever been honest with him? Do I really even know him at all?

My eyes turn to the door of the truck even as it moves at a steady pace that would be dangerous to fall from. My heart speeds up, my hand casually rests on the door handle.

“Can you explain it to me?” I say, voice far more calmer than I feel.

Grahm sighs a little. “They’re stories, legends, remember? I mentioned it before.”

“Yeah, I remember.” I feel a little more relaxed despite myself. “You never explained them before. Can you explain them now?”

We’re almost at Eloise’s, we turn down the familiar street, but the nausea doesn’t quite go away. Instead, it grows worse.

“It’s a silly story, really. Everyone has myths about why the sun disappears, things we told each other before science and reason.” Grahm says.

His words put me more at ease, and I can tell that he believes in the science part more, but there’s an undeniable edge to his voice when says those middle words. About myths. About the sun. About everything that comes next.

“Ours say that, the one, stands up during this time because it grows hungry. It’s winter, Laura, there’s nothing to eat, not much to hunt. The sun goes out because he’s standing up, and he’s looking for food. So, we leave some out, to appease the one. So, he’ll become full, and sit back down. So that the sun can come back. It’s superstition, that’s all it is.” Grahm’s smiling tightly at me, like he really believes it, like he’ll do whatever it takes to believe it. But underneath his smile, I see a faint tremble, I see youthful fear. Like a child’s nightmares that will always haunt them, even when they disappear for a while.

“What is the one?” I ask, gently as we stop outside Eloise’s home. “Is it, like a god?”

I feel it rising within me, the sick feeling, but I push it away. I need to be stronger than that. I need to understand what he’s Grahm is saying. I don’t actually believe it, it’s preposterous, but it might have some insight into the resident’s of Saltpine’s state of mind. The content of delusions come from somewhere. It would be irresponsible not to try, and find out where. To understand it better, so I can help them.

Grahm’s face is pale now, even his lips are losing blood as he smiles thinly. “More like, it’s child.”

-

Eloise has a dead chicken on her doorstep when I get out of the truck. I wisely decide not to comment on it.

-

After a sleepless night of going over and over the DSM III-R, I find myself waiting at the front door for Grahm again. It’s only been a few hours, but it feels like days. Despite sleeping so much yesterday, I am so tired. Achy all over. I feel it like a heaviness I’ll never get out from under. I know what this is, seasonal affective disorder. It’s plain as day, but it still is hard to swallow.

Eloise makes a big breakfast, lots of meat, and I feel hungrier than ever. I stick with my eggs and toast, and some coffee. Although for the first time in a while, I’m pretty tempted by the bacon she cooks, and two different kinds of sausage.

“That will be Grahm.” I say when the truck rumbles in.

“Of course, dear, please do be careful, and send Trinity my well wishes.” Eloise sees me off at the door.

I smile, and nod.

When I step outside though, the large winter jacket swallowing me up, I find my eyes widening in slight disbelief. The dead chicken is gone, and stench of rot is only a faint remanent. My eyes strain in the dark again, the lights from the houses helping, the head lights of Grahm’s truck more so, as I look from doorstep to doorstep.

All the dead animals that were there only a few hours ago, are all gone.

Some have faint bloodied marks left behind, most have nothing.

I look around the yards, thinking the wind must have moved them, but they’re gone. Only a thin layer of fresh snow that keeps growing thicker as the storm approaches, no outline of them either.

Predators? Perhaps, but why didn’t I hear a thing last night?

Shakily, I stumble to the truck, and get in, heart hammering.

“Did you sleep?” Grahm asks politely, but there’s a sharper tone to his voice that I’ve never heard before.

I look up to him, and see his skin still pale, eyes bloodshot, looking slightly perturbed. “All the dead animals are gone.”

He says nothing for a while, eyes staring out into the road, eerily silent until, “Yeah, that happens too. Must be animals, right?” He smiles tightly, as if he’s told this excuse a million times. As if he’s starting to finally see the flaws in the argument of it all.

“I-” I stop myself, as I remember quite suddenly Beth’s words from last night. My eyes widen, and I can tell already that Grahm knows what I’m thinking, that’s he’s been thinking the exact same thing all night long.

After all, one of those bodies was his wife.

“Take me to the cemetery.” I say, voice shaking, I’m shaking.

I feel scared, terrified, even.

Not because of the myth he told me, but because of everything that has happened so far. Because of the off-putting unlikeliness of what is happening all around us. It’s not normal, it’s completely unnatural. All my hair stands on end.

Grahm looks like he wants to argue, does a little with his eyes, but then as exhausted and tired as I am, seemingly doesn’t see the point in it. He starts driving.

My eyes turn to the houses that pass by helplessly, and as the residents of Saltpine wake up, turning on their lights that still work for the moment, I see the faint outline of empty doorsteps that were once full of rotting animals not a few hours ago.

Maybe I didn’t see it right, maybe there weren’t dead animals there.

No, there were.

What am I even thinking?

It takes no time at all before we’re there, at the cemetery, passed the graves, right to the death house where the doors that were once chained and locked extra tightly, and securely by RCMP Officer Davidson himself, are now swinging open in the slow gradual build of a wind of another, more fierce oncoming winter storm.

“Laura, wait.” Grahm says.

He’s scarcely stopped the truck when I’ve already got the door flying open. My feet hitting the snow harshly, half-running towards the building. The headlights shine on it, lighting it up clearly, but it’s not until Grahm stands beside me, flashlight pointed inward that I see the absence of Colten, Amy, and Dr. Schile.

The blankets I painstakingly wrapped them in, laying on the ground, flailing slightly in the wind. Robes and ties, scattered. But that’s not the most frightening part.

My heart gives a start when my eyes move from those objects on the ground inward, to the outward, to where the doorway is, leading right into the freshly laid snow.

Our footprints are long gone, and in their place there are three new pairs imprinted in the harsh white. But they’re only going in one direction. They’re only going out.

-Dr. Laura Cotts