When Jacob Housley turned up dead, it didn’t take long for me to hear about it.  Just about everyone knew everyone, back in the old town, and I was more than familiar with the Housleys.  Well, I used to be, anyway.  

Jacob was one of my fathers closest friends–almost an uncle to me in my youth.  Though I hadn’t seen him for many years, when my childhood friend, Tony called to tell me the news, it still knocked the wind out of me.  

I had moved out to the city, right after graduating high school, working a few jobs, here and there, to carve out my own life, free from my father.  We were never exactly close, but after my mom walked out on us, things only got worse between us.  

After many attempts to settle on a career choice, I took some classes to become a private investigator.  I’ve been doing this for a good six years, by this point, but it feels like what I’m supposed to be doing.

I have a good relationship with the local police department–something that makes life so much easier, in a profession like this.  While I mostly deal with cases involving cheating spouses, some fraud, and neighborhood thieves, I’ve been told that I’m a natural at this.  

I can often tell when people are being truthful or not, while clues to my investigations practically fall into my lap, sometimes.  It’s hard to explain, really, but I know when I’m on the wrong track, no matter how much things may, or may not add up at the time.  

I think that’s what motivated me to head back to the small town in which I was raised, to look into the death of my childhood, adopted uncle.  I won’t say that I don’t have faith in the local law, back home…okay, that’s exactly what I’m saying.  

Whether they didn’t care, or were just completely inept, Mayberry PD came off like the fucking FBI in comparison.  Not that anything particularly noteworthy ever happened when I lived there, of course.  

Still, my lack of faith in their investigation skills aside, I had such an intense need to know what happened to Jacob Housley.  My only apprehension was in potentially having to reach out to my old man, as he was the only person I knew to be particularly close to Jacob.  

Honestly, I can’t even recall the last time we spoke, let alone met in person.  I have visited my old stomping ground a few times over the decade or so I’ve been gone, but only to touch base with some friends.  I should probably feel bad for not checking in on him sooner, but he lost those privileges a long time ago.  

Jacob almost seemed a polar opposite to my father at times.  He actually treated me like a human being, for one.  While my dad generally made sure to keep me at arms length.  Of course, the more he pushed me away, the more I wanted to get away, and never look back.  

I booked a hotel room, on the outskirts of town, spending the first day just settling in, and making a few phone calls.  Like I said: it’s not a big place, by any means, but there were still a few good spots, right off the interstate.

Daryl Gently–quite the fitting name for the completely indifferent sheriff, who had been in that position since before I left, was not particularly forthcoming with any details concerning the death.  What he did, I suspect, inadvertently let me know, was that the fire which consumed the house did not appear to be accidental.

I had a feeling about that–that his premature demise was likely the result of foul play.  I suppose I wouldn’t have felt compelled to head out this way, if I believed it to be just a simple electrical fire.  Still, whether he meant to share these facts or not, Gently’s indication that this was no accident assured me that I was on the right track.  

With or without the sheriff’s blessing, that would be my first stop, the following morning–the remains of the home in which the old family friend perished, along with all of his worldly belongings.  He had once shared the place with his wife and daughter, who was like a sister to me, but they walked out on him, some years before I left this town behind.  

I was thankful for that, if for no other reason–that he was alone when the building was reduced to ash and cinders.  I still keep in touch with Sarah, who still feels like a sibling to me, but she doesn’t seem to think too highly of her father.  Of course, that’s something to which I can relate, even if I do have very different memories of her old man.  

I felt my breath catch in my throat, when I pulled up alongside the ruined structure, still concealed behind the yellow tape–the sight of the house in which I had played as a boy, completely unrecognizable.  

I just stood there, next to my car, gazing at the charred wood and ash, my jaw dropping involuntarily.  I was so mentally checked out, I didn’t even notice the car pulling up on the other side of the road.  But when the siren sounded one time, my senses collided with my mind again, spinning me in place.  

Gently just glared at me, with his driver’s side window rolled down, shaking his head with an expression of parental disappointment on his face.  It would seem that he was well aware that I would not simply leave this alone, with his dismissal of my request to look into this.  

Regardless of that, I gave him a pleasant enough smile and a nod, climbing back into my car.  He didn’t move until I did–likely to make certain I would leave the scene behind, but I wasn’t about to walk away from this.  

If anything, his adamant refusal to allow me to just look at the damn place, safely and legally behind the yellow tape, only made me more determined to find out what happened here.  

Taking one final glance at the crumbled and burnt structure, I gave a complimentary wave to the elderly sheriff, before easing back down the road.  His intervention only fueled the theory which had been building in the recesses of my mind–that there was a conspiracy here, or some sort of cover up.  

Whether this was the case or not, when I took that last look at the remnants of the home of my adopted uncle, those indescribable instincts assured me that I would find no answers there.  Still, I couldn’t quite get a read on where I should go next, as effortless as such things have been, since I began my career as a PI.  

Perhaps it was simply my connection to the house, as well as the town itself.  I can’t deny that my thoughts were cluttered, my mind uneasy about being back here, under these circumstances.  No, I had to get my head right, if I hoped to find my next lead, with or without the aid of the local police department.  

I spent the next few hours driving around with no destination in mind.  Not only should a relaxing drive allow my mind to wander a bit, but this was part of my process when I didn’t know where to turn.  

Though it’s difficult to articulate–how these inspirations creep up on me, the best way I can describe it is that this is my bloodhound stage of investigation.  I can’t say what it is, whether some sort of mental itch, or simply allowing my thoughts to categorize themselves while I focus on the road.  But it’s not unlike a dog seeking out a specific scent.  

With my head in the clouds as I drove aimlessly, I would rely on my dashcam and gps to paint a picture of my travels, should nothing strike me, as I plundered on.  Even after I felt as though I had toured the entirety of my home town, a number of times, I didn’t feel the slightest itch or twinge.  

Ultimately, after hours spent spanning the streets, suburbs, and back roads, I returned to my hotel room, having picked up some fast food to ease the grumbling of my stomach.  Flipping on the television, and sitting on the surprisingly cozy bed, I hoped the distractions would settle my erratic thoughts as I indulged in my well earned meal.  

No matter how much I tried to focus on the movie on the screen, something was nibbling on my subconscious–like a distant voice I couldn’t quite make out.  I knew there was something I was missing, even with having absolutely no evidence to go on.  

I’d felt this before, or at least a watered down version of it.  Like something hiding in plain sight, just out of view.  Whatever it was, as I had to force my waning appetite to indulge, it was obvious I would not be able to distract myself–not until I at least understood my next step.  

I had grown both restless and exhausted, though I knew that sleep would not be in the cards for me anytime soon.  Stashing the remainder of the meal I couldn’t finish for the time being, I pulled up the GPS on my phone, to track my hours of weaving from one road to the next.  

In some ways, given that uneasy feeling in the back of my mind, I wasn’t surprised about the recurring steps in my aimless driving.  Still, that didn’t make it any easier to accept where I would need to visit, to unlock the next chapter in my investigation.  

It looked as though I had driven past my father’s house a total of five times, during which my mind had been so distant, I didn’t even realize I was on his street.  Though I could chalk this up to the fact that it was the house I grew up in, potentially guided there by that subconscious need to go back home, I hadn’t considered it a home for a very long time.  

My father could barely stand to look at me, after his wife left, pushing me further and further away with each passing day.  I was around twelve when she walked out, though my memories of that are sort of vague.  I do remember her well, and how she had that way of making me feel like the most precious part of this world.  

I felt like I was everything to her, as she was to me, when I was a kid.  I can’t even describe how much it fractured me when she left.  The fact that she didn’t speak a word to me about what she was planning was just as perplexing as it was hurtful.  

I simply woke up one day, and she was gone.  It was almost like she had never even lived in the house, with how quickly my old man seemingly vanquished the place of all of her things.  Of course I don’t really recall her having much in the way of material belongings.  

I won’t say that my dad was exactly a loving parent before she departed our lives, but I do recall him smiling more.  He would tell me that it was my fault that she left, for being such an unusual child over my younger years, though those memories are hard to locate.  Naturally, regardless of what I could or could not remember, he continued to point his finger at me for everything that brought him misery afterwards.  

While he was never physically violent with me, he made certain that I knew what a curse I had been to his life.  Somehow; though, I made it through those times with no lingering damage to my self esteem or inner worth.  I always had a confidence in myself that he couldn’t shake, no matter how hard he tried.  

My old man had only two passions in his life: the church, and the bottle.  He still kept his faith in his god–honestly to a fault, but that wouldn’t stop him from getting hammered just about every single night after my mom took off.  

The more drunk he got, the more vocal he was about how I looked, in his eyes.  I know he was hurting–even at a young age, I could see that.  But, after she bailed on us, he acted like I was some sort of demon, haunting his once happy home.  

He would drag me to church, every damn week, spilling the gospel all the more when we got back to the house.  While a lot of my memories of those years are somewhat foggy, I’ll never forget how he looked at me.  That hatred and resentment in his eyes.

I never felt alone or abandoned, though–even while hiding out in my bedroom, attempting to avoid my father’s attempts to make me suffer.  A child’s mind can be scarred so easily, when shown such resentment by those tasked with raising them.  But I only became all the more independent, and driven to escape his endless negativity.  

It’s as if there was a dense cloud of melancholy surrounding the man at all times, which only left me so much lighter when I left.  Leaving that house behind, once and for all, was like bursting through the surface of the ocean, after being lost to the sea for years.  

It was that fog of misery, even more than the resentment, that inspired me never to return to that place.  That’s also what was making me all the more uneasy about having to return, should I hope to get to the bottom of what was really going on in this town.  I swear I could feel it creeping back up on me, as I sat on that hotel mattress, my skin trembling from the thought of what may lie ahead for me.  

Sometime, during the night, as I fought to sleep away my old ghosts, the thunder beyond my window sprang me from the bed, almost gasping for breath.  It felt like the knowledge that I must face my father had summoned the storm itself–his inherent disparity presiding over this damned town.  

As I rolled back over to allow my weary mind to drift away once more, I felt the most intense sensation of being watched.  I sat straight up, the blanket pouring from my suddenly shivering frame, cutting my eyes to the window on my right.  

Even with the curtains closed, the lights from the parking lot revealed the slender silhouette, standing right in front of the glass.  I couldn’t make out any features, but I didn’t need to.  I could feel the eyes burning into mine, as though I was locked into a dead stare with whoever was out there.  

Snapping my drowsy and erratic mind back to the here and now, I leapt from the plush mattress, snatching the revolver I had set upon the nightstand.  I didn’t break my gaze from the haunting shadow beyond the window until I reached the door, throwing it open, and springing from my room.  

I felt the textured grip of my gun trembling in my hand with the sight of only the vacant, second floor landing before me.  Cutting my head from one side to the other, seeing no trace of anyone or anything, other than the occasional vehicle drifting by the hotel, I felt almost disconnected from my body.  

As I turned to head back into my temporary living quarters, taking one last glance at where I was certain someone had stood, glaring in at me–that’s when I noticed the footprints.  Crouching down and running a finger across the blackened shape of two, slender, bare feet.  I could smell the smoke embedded into the sooty residue on my finger, before I registered what it was.  

With a quick jaunt back to my nightstand to grab my phone, and a sheet of paper, I snapped three shots of the prints, as well as the ash upon my fingertips.  I would often see strange things upon reawakening, with one part of my mind still honed in on whatever dream I had been entertaining.  I needed proof that this was no hallucination.  

Before heading back in and locking my door for the night, I brushed some of the ashy substance onto the paper sheet, folding it up for safe keeping.  With no friends on the police department here, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to convince anyone to run some tests on it.  But something told me to hold onto it–that itching in my mind convinced me of that fact.  

Once I lay back down again, after slipping my pistol beneath the pillow to my left, I kept stealing glances at the window.  With how erratic my thoughts had been when I attempted to pass out before, I knew it would be a far less simple task to drift away now.

Fortunately, I had remembered to bring my over the counter sleeping pills, which had become my go to remedy for those sleepless nights, when an investigation cluttered my thoughts.  Granted, this one was far more potent than the average adultery case, but I hoped that doubling my regular dosage would get the job done.  

I didn’t even realize I had indeed dozed back off, until my alarm brought me back to the waking world.  Well, somewhat, anyway.  Between the interrupted sleep, and unwelcome visitor, prior to knocking back the meds, I almost felt hungover.  

With my head so loopy, I chose to fall out for a few more hours, hopeful to have as clear a mind as possible, before facing my father.  I knew he would prey on any weakness he saw in me, avoiding the questions to which I needed answers, as much as humanly possible.  

It was a little past two in the afternoon, when I blinked my eyes back open.  I was still a bit dazed, but I knew I couldn’t afford to waste the day–not with so much weighing on me.  I had to get this out of the way.  I had to face my father, if I hoped to clear the clutter, and get my instincts back on track.  

My stomach was in knots as I drove the all too familiar roads to the house in which I grew up.  Having not eaten much the previous day, and my appetite still having not returned enough to even attempt breakfast, the anticipation of seeing my old man only aggravated my churning gut all the more.  

I just sat in my car, parked in front of my long since abandoned home, attempting to motivate myself to move.  I didn’t so much as glance at the house–just gazed, blankly through the windshield, my weary mind attempting to organize the erratic thoughts.  

When my pensive daze was interrupted by such an aggressive pounding on my driver’s side window, I thought the glass would shatter.  I felt my blood flow stop cold with the sight of my father glaring down at me.  

He didn’t speak, only continued to stare on with that all too familiar resentment in his eyes.  As I unclasped my seatbelt, took a deep breath, and prepared to get out of my car, he turned his back to me, strolling toward the open front door of his home.  

While I reluctantly followed a ways behind him, he cut his eyes over his shoulder–I assume, to be certain I was coming along.  He didn’t exactly invite me in, as he crossed the threshold, but he left the door open for me.  

I felt my legs attempt to give out beneath me, the musty scent of the old place slapping me across the face even harder than the bitter nostalgia, as I walked in.  I just stood in the doorway for a moment, placing a hand against the frame to stabilize my involuntary swaying.  

“Close the door!” he called out in a clearly pissed off tone.  

After regulating my spinning head, to a point, I continued on to the dining room, keeping my eyes fixed on the ratty carpet.  Whether it was being in my dad’s presence, or the vision of the house in which I had not stepped foot for years that had my heart racing so bad, I thought it best to maintain a bit of tunnel vision for a time.  

“Heard you was back,” he said, pulling two beers from the fridge, “didn’t figure you’d come to visit or nothin’.”

“I heard about Jacob,” I said, as my old man took his usual spot at the table, sliding one of the bottles toward me, “I had to come check it out.” 

“Gently’ll find who done it…ain’t no need in you…”

“Gently can barely track down his fucking car in the parking lot.”

“You’ll watch your mouth, when you’re in this house, boy,” he said, glaring up at me with contempt.  

He was never a fan of swearing–claimed it was against God’s commandments, and all that good stuff.  Even when I was forced to read his precious Bible, when I was a kid, I can’t say I ever found the part that said, ‘Thou shalt not say ‘fuck’ a lot’, but I was skimming, at best.  

“You don’t get to tell me what I can and cannot say anymore,” I replied, coldly, “but I’ll try to control my potty mouth.” 

He just gave a heavy sigh, before chugging down half of the chilled beer in his hand.  

“What’d you come here for? Whatcha think I can give you that the police can’t?” 

“They won’t give me anything.  Besides, you know…well…you knew Jacob better than anyone.  Did he have any enemies?” 

“Enemies!?” he belted with a condescending laugh, “you ain’t in the big city, boy.  Ain’t no one got enemies ’round these parts.  Besides…I don’t know Housley like I used to.” 

“Pushed him away too, huh?” I said, more than asked.  

“What’s that s’pose to mean?” he said, slamming his bottle on the table, “I didn’t never push you, one way or the other! You…”

“Seriously!? All you did was push me! After Mom left, you…”

“What in the name of Pete did you ever know ‘bout yer momma!?”

“What did…? She was the only one who actually wanted me in this house! I knew her better than you ever let me get to know you! All you showed me was contempt!” 

“Your mom hit the road when you was still in diapers! Yeah, I’d catch you playin’ house, like a lil girl–pretendin’ she didn’t up and leave us, but I ain’t never even showed you a picture of her!” 

“You are fucking delusional!” I scoffed, “if it wasn’t for her, I would’ve grown up to be the same ignorant, goddamn prick…” 

I don’t even know when he got to his feet, but when his hand smacked across my face, I could barely form a rational thought.  

“You ain’t gonna blaspheme in MY house!” 

My mind suddenly flooded with such an erratic collage of imagery, I felt my body flop to the chair beside me.  

“There ya go, bein’ a lil sissy again.  I didn’t even hit you that hard, and you’re actin’ like you’re dyin’!” 

It was like that hit realigned the gears which had been shifted in my mind, the fog that hid away excerpts from my past dissipating, while I fought to regain my focus.  

“You live in a fantasy world–always have! Your momma was the same way.  That’s how I knowed you was just the same as her.  That you was as corrupt as her.  That you was as unclean as her…” 

I blinked my eyes, battling to hone in on the world around me, rather than the imagery panning across the surface of my mind.  I glanced at my old man, who was only inches from my face, still raging on.  

While I looked at his reddening skin and hateful gaze, my mind’s eye revealed a seemingly endless stream of this very expression from my youth.  I jerked my head to the side as I felt him strike me again–not in the present, but the much smaller and far more defenseless child I once was.  

I cut my eyes to the stove, to see the spiderwebbed cracks across the glass door, upon which he had rammed my head when I was just a boy.  I pushed my old man away from me, while he still screamed at me through gritted teeth.  

Staggering to the living room, I saw the splits in the drywall, against which he had pushed me, the chip on the coffee table, that earned me sixteen stitches across the back of my scalp, and the door frame he had snapped my forearm against.  

It was all coming back–everything my trauma had hidden from me.  I suddenly and vividly recalled every single beating.  Every wound he had inflicted.  Every scar I had never questioned before.  And every single thread, sewn into the tapestry of my hatred for the son of a bitch who raised me.  

With my mind, still in chaos, and my old man, still following behind, yelling at me, I was on him before I registered it.  He finally shut his mouth, as his whole body trembled beneath my grip as I snatched him by the collar, ramming his back to the same wall against which he had slammed me, splitting the drywall all the more.  

I couldn’t even form words as I glared into his suddenly horror-stricken eyes, but I didn’t need them.  He could see the truth reflected in my gaze.  He could see that I remembered everything he had put me through.  

“You put me through hell,” I said, matter of factly, when I relocated my ability to speak.  

“I…I was tryin’ to save you…” 

“Save me!? I was a child!”

“You was her child…” 

“I was yours too…” 

“Ain’t no part of me in you,” he said, spitting with words.  

I rammed him harder against the wall, battling my urge to thrust my fist through his face and into the sheetrock.  He coughed, his legs buckling beneath him, but I wouldn’t let him drop.  

“Is this why she left? Did you beat her too?” 

“I never…I couldn’t…”

She had protected me from him, or at least attempted to–I realized that now.  That was until she left, of course, which only made me feel all the more betrayed.  She left me to be tormented.  While I can fully understand why she would bail on him, why wouldn’t she take me with her!?

I finally released my grip, allowing the bastard to fall to the carpet.  I backed away, still trembling from head to toe, while he shivered on the floor, staring, wide eyed back at me.  

“You’d better be glad that she made me better than you.  That she taught me, better than you,” I said, lowering myself to the floor across from him.  

“She didn’t make you nothin’, boy…you never knew her! You ain’t never seen her face, ye hear me?”

“I remember her face…I remember her love…I remember that she was the only person in this house who made me feel wanted.” 

“You need help, son,” he said, with a heavy exhale, and strangely compassionate voice, “she left when you was six months old…ain’t no way you ever even met her…”

“Bullshit…she tucked me in every single night, until she left.  She would sing me to sleep, when you left me in tears.  She would tend to the wounds that you inflicted.  I remember it all now.  You can’t…”

“It ain’t…true…” 

“Okay.  You say she left when I was a baby.  Whatever.  But I know she was with me, even if she snuck into the house when you were passed out drunk.  Before you ran her off for good, anyway.”

“You don’t understand…you need help, boy…” 

“No, you don’t understand! She was the only thing that kept me going, back then! You’re a fucking monster! She actually…”

“She’s…dead! She died before you lost your first tooth!” he screamed, tears spilling down his face.  

“Bullshit! I know that…” 

“She was a troubled girl, son.  I…I tried to help her, but she just pushed me away…I know I was hard on you…I…I’m sorry…but I didn’t want you to…”

“What did you do to her? I said, getting back to my feet.  

“I didn’t do nothin’, son…she…she killed herself.  They found her body in the woods.  She hung herself out there, where no one could stop her.  She…had problems, kid.  She was disturbed in ways that I didn’t know how to fix, but…but, I tried.  Lord knows, I tried.”

There was a sincerity on his face I had never seen before.  It looked as though his heart was shattering, as he trembled before me.  But, I knew she had been in my life–that she was a significant part of my childhood.  I couldn’t even begin to wrap my mind around what he was saying.  

“Tell me…tell me everything,” I said, reaching a hand to the broken man on the floor, helping him back to his feet.  

He glanced at the deep split in the wall, and back to me, shaking his head, before leading me back to the dining room.  Grabbing another beer from the fridge, he gave a nod to the chair opposing him.  I took my spot, wrapping my trembling fingers around the bottle awaiting me.  

My father glared at the drink in his hand, as if seeking advice from the brown, tinted glass.  I didn’t speak, only stared at his tilted head, granting him some moments to gather his bearings.  Maybe ten minutes passed by, before he began to talk.  

“Your momma wasn’t never like other folks.  S’pose that’s what drawed me to her, back then.  There was somethin’ about her that just cast a spell on anyone that met her.  Hell, I reckon I was head over heels from that first glance.”

He chuckled, softly, with an expression I had never seen.  It was both happy and sad, but kind and compassionate.  I didn’t even know his face was capable of anything other than rage and bitterness.  

“When you was born, I ain’t never seen no one look at anyone, the way she looked at you.  I kinda hate to admit it, but I was a bit jealous.  The love in her eyes for you, was so far beyond anythin’ she’d ever showed me.  S’pose I sorta resented you for that.  Didn’t realize it at the time, though.” 

He wouldn’t look up from his bottle, even when tipping it to his lips.  I could see the shame on his face, though.  

“We started fightin’ a lot, over them first months of your life, and I just knowed she was gonna leave me.  The bond between the two of you was more intense than anythin’ I’d ever knowed.  Every night, she’d sit beside your crib, fallin’ asleep beside you, leavin’ me alone in the bed.”

“One mornin’, right outta the blue.  I woke up, and she was just gone! Didn’t leave a note.  Didn’t even take her things with her.  At first, I figured she’d just run into town for a spell, but she never come back.  Days went by, and she just…she just didn’t come home.” 

“I looked for her.  Filled out a missin’ persons report, and damn near lost my mind over weeks of searchin’.  But couldn’t never turn nothin’ up.  That was until some months later, when some hikers found her decomposin’ body, strung up to that tree branch.” 

Tears were spilling down his face, as he continued his staring match with his beer.  I almost wanted to feel bad for him–to get up and hold him, to ease his heavy heart.  But I couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t telling me everything.  

“I’m sorry I took it out on you,” he said, finally cutting his watering eyes to mine, “I knowed it wasn’t your fault, but I was hurtin’.  I was angry…so damned angry! I saw so much of her in you…the way you acted.  The things that you’d say and do…that look in yer eyes…” 

The borderline swearing caught me more off guard than the seemingly endless river of tears.  I started to get to my feet, my mind battling to find a way to forgive him for the hell he put me through.  But, before I had the chance to weigh my doubts about his words, with the sudden ache in my chest, a knock at the door put an end to this brief moment of bonding with my old man.  

He smeared the sleeve of his shirt across his eyes, as he got up from his chair, glancing at me momentarily with an expression I couldn’t quite read.  I just stayed where I was, while he approached the door, still attempting to calm my trembling extremities.  

At first, I assumed it was likely to just be a neighbor, or someone from his church–visitors who would be neither my business, nor my concern.  But, when I heard the familiar, shaky voice of sheriff Gently, I suddenly felt inspired to keep my breathing shallow, to make out what was being said.  

“There’s been another fire, Dale,” the sheriff said in a harried voice.  

There was some whispering, before the door closed, the voices growing much more muffled and hard to make out.  I crept closer to the door, but still couldn’t make out any details about who, or where this blaze had consumed.  

Something that seems quite clear about this; though–the death of Jacob Housley was certainly no accident, though I already suspected that much.  Between how shaken Gently seemed, as well as the sudden need for secrecy between him and my old man, I knew that they both knew more than they were letting on.  

As I heard the doorknob jiggle, likely from fingers wrapping around it, I hastily returned to my place at the table.  I started fidgeting with my phone, and sipping from my beer, to play the part of one not concerned with the conversation I wasn’t meant to bear witness to.  

When my father returned, looking shaken and pale, he didn’t give me a chance to ask any more questions.  

“I have to head out for a spell.  Best for you to go,” he said, dismissively, not so much as making eye contact.  

I just looked at him, still reeling from the things we discussed about my mother, the memories I had locked away, as well as curious as to the nature of this most recent fire.  

“Come over tomorrow,” he said, finally gazing into my eyes, his welling up again, “we’ll talk more…if you want.”

Whether that was due to the things we still had to discuss, or what the sheriff told him, I couldn’t read.  But I chose not to dig for answers.  Of course, that didn’t mean I wasn’t still going to seek them out.  

Gently was still standing outside when I left, completely ignoring me as I walked past him.  As I hopped into my car, I could feel the eyes of both the sheriff and my father glaring at me–likely to ensure I was indeed leaving, before they headed out.  

Though I planned to follow them, I had to make them believe I was washing my hands of this.  They surely wouldn’t hit the road until I was well out of view.  Having no idea which direction they would be going, I would have to both get out of their sight, and remain close enough to pursue them.  

This was one of those circumstances in which I would have to fully rely on my instincts.  Sure, I could park off to the side of the road and wait for them to pass by, but if they were going in the opposite direction, I would be shit out of luck.  And I was pretty damn certain they would be following the path opposing the one I took, as I eased back onto the road.  

After I took that first left, securing myself out of their direct line of sight, I pulled into the old gas station, just past the old neighborhood.  I neither filled my tank, nor did I gaze out at the road.  I just closed my eyes, with my hands still gripped around the steering wheel.  

The traffic passing by was sporadic, but I wasn’t distracted by the cars coming and going–not when I allowed my mind’s eye to enter its bloodhound stage.  Though I had only heard the sheriff’s truck once or twice, it had a very distinctive rumble.  Distinct enough for me to know it had not passed by the gas station.  

While it had only been maybe five or ten minutes since I left the old house behind, I knew they wouldn’t waste much time after I was out of the way.  As I suspected, this had to mean they had gone the other way.  

My eyes blinking back open, I hit the gas, heading back in the direction from which I had come.  Sure enough, there was no trace of Gently’s truck, or anyone lingering in my old front yard.  This was when I really needed to be on my toes.  

I didn’t hesitate as I continued on through my old man’s neighborhood, nor did I allow myself to take a second guess when I took the right at the first stop sign.  When I neared another fork ahead, again, I didn’t give myself a chance to make a choice, just followed whichever way my steering wheel veered.  

Though I didn’t want to earn any unwanted attention, I sped faster than I normally would on these roads.  Yes, even after all these years, navigating the old town was still deeply embedded in my muscle memory.  But I wasn’t trying to get pulled over by some deputy do-right either.  

Still, I had to catch up with those I was tracking, and I had no doubt they would likely be abusing the speed limit themselves.  When I saw the shadow of a vehicle ahead of me in the distance, highlighted by the aura of the setting sun, I knew I had located my target, even if I couldn’t make out the slightest detail, just yet.  

With that, I slowed down a little.  Not much.  Just enough to match the course they were setting.  I couldn’t allow them to make out which vehicle was behind them either, though I was sure they would have no reason to suspect that I had found them.  

For a good fifteen minutes, I followed behind, matching each turn they took, losing sight of them for only moments at a time.  When they finally pulled over, next to the treeline of the woods near the city limits, I eased over, finding a spot to nestle my car behind the brush.  

Though it appeared that any firefighters or ambulances had already vacated the area, light plumes of smoke still drifted from the trees.  Even traveling on foot now, attempting to keep my steps as silent as possible through the dried leaves scattered across the forest floor, this gave me a definite course to follow.  

I can’t quite say how long I had been traversing between and around the trees, when the erratic voices met my ears.  But when I passed through some of the scorched brush to see the charred remains of a crumbling cabin, I dropped to the ground to avoid the gaze of the two who stood before it.  

Between the water still dripping from the structure and the wind brushing the surrounding leaves, I still couldn’t make out what they were saying.  The sheriff appeared to be falling apart, almost as much as the scorched frame of what was left of a house.  

My father looked to be attempting to calm him down, while clearly shaken himself.  As he gripped Gently by the shoulders, slapping him across the face, I grew aware of another sound off in the distance.  

While the only remaining evidence of the blaze that consumed the small cabin, was the dissipating smoke, drifting from the charred wooden planks.  I could swear I heard the crackling of fire somewhere else nearby.  

With the two I followed out here having seemingly shifted from shocked to angered, pointing fingers at one another, while raising their voices, I understood that I couldn’t advance my investigation until they had moved on.  Not with the ambient noises around me muffling even their rage filled words.  

I edged back a little, making sure that my movements wouldn’t grab their attention, though they appeared quite singularly focused on their argument at the time.  Once I felt I was far enough away to move more freely, I followed in pursuit of the crackling sounds.  

With the sun having gone down, it was no easy task traversing the forest, though the moon above did make things a little more clear.  Still, every time I felt like I was nearing that unsettling sound, it seemed to move further out.  

I had been clumsily stalking through the dense woods for maybe a good twenty minutes or so, when I noticed the flickering illumination ahead.  I quickened my pace, worried that both the sound and the glow would move further out by the time I could reach them, but that wasn’t entirely the case.  

When I pushed through the denser woods, passing into a wide clearing, both the crackling and the illumination just stopped.  The moonlight shone as a spotlight on a charred circle in the dead center of the clearing, with a lone, wide, but skeletal tree looming over it.  

A long, thick branch protruded from the tree, directly above where the ground looked to have been set aflame, and I found my extremities trembling from the sight.  My whole body was shivering as I approached the eerie patch of scorched land, my heart racing all of a sudden.  

As I stood there, my gaze shifting from the forest floor, to the skeletal tree, I felt tears begin to trickle down my face.  I couldn’t convince myself to move, like I was strangely paralyzed by the sights before me.  That was until I heard the rustling and harried voices behind me.  

My frantic mind colliding back with the reality around me, I practically sprinted to the nearest bushes, leaping into them in hopes of not being discovered.  When I saw a very frazzled Daryl Gently emerging from the trees I had passed through only moments ago, my thoughts were so scattered, I didn’t even realize what was different about him at first.  

It wasn’t until the next individual followed behind him, when I felt my breath catch in my throat.  Jacob Housley looked almost just as I remembered him from my youth, though his movements were erratic, and his face pale and strangely horrified.  

Both of the men were talking over the other, panicked and frenzied voices that overlapped in a way I couldn’t make out a word.  They kept looking back to where they had entered, when three more people pushed through the trees.  Two of which caused me to audibly gasp, clutching at my mouth.  

A woman, in a long, sleek, black dress, with her wrists bound by duct tape, and a burlap sack over her head, was clutched by the grasp of two other men.  One–a tall, but slender man, with a ratty, brown beard and a feathered mullet.  And the other…my father.  But not the man I had followed out here.  Not the man who had been worn down by life and years of alcoholism.  

I barely remember this version of him–a large and muscled man, with fine, blonde hair and a neatly trimmed goatee.  I hesitantly got to my feet, understanding that the events I was witnessing were not actually taking place before me–not exactly, anyway.  

I moved in closer, as they pushed the screaming woman to the charred patch of ground, my skin trembling as though the temperature had plummeted.  My body shook all the more violently, when my old man pulled the sack away, revealing the tear filled eyes of the one who always found a way to make me smile, when life got too heavy.  

“Why!” she cried out, shuffling herself to her knees, begging for a reason for this assault.  

Any more words she could offer were cut short, when my old man’s boot met her face, toppling her back to the ground.  He gave a nod to the trembling Gently, who pulled the pack from his back, tossing it to Housley.  

“You sure about this, man?” Jacob said, his words as shaky and strained as my mother’s.  

“I…I saw her…” my father said, his voice cracking as tears trickled down his face, “I saw her tryin’ to conjure the devil in my son’s bedroom…” 

“NO!” my mother screamed, “you don’t understand!” 

“I don’t understand!?” he barked, “I don’t understand that you was makin’ incantations by his crib!? That you was circlin’ a pentagram and lightin’ candles!?” 

“It was a spell of protection! To keep him safe!” she bargained, but he wouldn’t hear it.  

“You heard her!” he said, darting his eyes between the others, “you heard her admit it! That she was doin’ spells!”

Housley just gazed at her, shaking his head from side to side.  Gently pulled his crucifix necklace from around his neck, kissing it, and gripping it tightly.  The other guy just muttered under his breath, walking back to my father.  

“Thou shalt not…” my father stuttered, pulling the coiled rope from the backpack, “thou shalt not suffer…a witch…to live…” 

My mother screamed all the more as the three men held her in place, while my old man slung the rope across the thick tree branch.  She gazed into his eyes, as he pulled the noose around her neck, no longer battling against those who still held her down.  

She would not break his stare, even when all four of them grabbed the rope, pulling her up by the neck, and tying it around the trunk.  She didn’t writhe when the oxygen was restricted to her lungs, nor did her expression reflect any hatred…only the pain of one betrayed, so grievously.  

Part of me wanted to run to her–to pull her free of her bindings, and the rope that steadily choked the life from her.  But I knew these events were nothing I had control over–not now.  I only fell to my knees, sobbing upon the dead leaves, while the four men squirted my mother down with lighter fluid.  

They each lit their own match, tossing them at her from a distance safe from the blaze, as it began to consume her.  They watched on still, even as they backed away.  She still didn’t scream.  She didn’t beg.  She still did not break her gaze from her husband, even after her eyeballs leaked from their sockets.  Even when the rope snapped, leaving her burning on the forest floor.  

I glared contemptuously into the eyes of this memory of my father–a memory that was not mine, but one I would never forget.  I still wouldn’t tear my eyes from his, until he and his now panicking mob fled back through the trees, leaving me alone with the crackling fire to my back.  

I can’t say how long I lingered there, kneeling on the ground with my expression somber, and tears still trickling down my face.  When I finally got back to my feet, reluctantly turning to the flames consuming the ghost of my mother, she was no longer lying on the forest floor.  

Standing there before me, the vibrant, flickering, orange glow of her eyes, gazing into mine.  Her hair was nothing but flame, almost being tossed by the gentle breeze, the blaze coursing across her arms, and down her back and legs.  

The expression on the face, unchanged from the loving smile I would look upon as my youthful eyes drifted away, was so kind.  She didn’t speak–only outstretched her arm, gesturing for me to approach her.  

There was no hesitation in my steps, as I paced toward her, the flames retracting as I drew near, leaving only her pale skin, and the blackened, soot-lined flesh from her shins to her feet.  I threw my arms around her, while she returned my embrace, both of us shedding tears over the years and memories of which my father had robbed us.  

After a time, she pulled back, her palm tenderly encasing my cheek.  I saw fragments–flickers of days gone by, revealing more about the craft my mother had practiced in life, and my father’s reaction when he discovered who his wife truly was.  

She never used her gifts to harm, only to help those she cared for.  While she had performed some rituals for her husband’s benefit–health, success, peace of mind, he clearly could not differentiate such things.  All he could fathom in his closed, little mind, was that she must be in league with the devil himself.  

I somehow recalled the day she returned to me, after the night her husband left her smoldering in these very woods.  To me–a toddler, with no concept of even the average, day to day world around me, I only saw the woman who gave birth to me.  The one who adored me, like no other.  

As the years passed, I grew more aware of how I would always know she would arrive, when that glow flickered outside my bedroom window.  Though her skin was unnaturally pale, and her eyes that vibrant orange, these aspects of her never seemed unusual or out of place to me.  

Her dark hair defied gravity, always blown by absent wind.  Her dress was blackened and charred, as were her bare feet and legs, but all I ever registered was the love she expressed.  

It’s strange, though.  Even though I remember her sending me to sleep with exhilarating tales of fantastical adventures, when I was a kid, it would seem that she no longer had the ability to speak.  Not out loud, anyway.  

I saw one last vision, playing across my mind’s eyes–that of an older man, wearing a long robe, and a large crucifix around his neck, who my old man invited into his home.  

While my father had cursed the craft of his wife, he apparently had no problem with the ritual this man performed in his house–the one that prevented my mother from ever entering again.  

Whether or not he denied that I could have met the woman who gave birth to me.  It would seem that he was well aware that something uninvited had entered.  Something he found a way to deny entry.  

As my mom backed away from me, the flames reemerging, and surrounding her once more, I heard her whispering directly into my thoughts.  

“I love you too, mom,” I replied to her unspoken words.  

Once more, after she faded from before me, I found myself alone, staring at that charred patch of ground.  I felt the rage coursing through my veins, as I began to walk back in the direction from which I had come.  But I did not keep my movements stealthy this time.  

Daryl and my old man were still bantering back and forth, when I pushed through the trees, surrounding the still smoking cabin.  They both stopped talking the second they saw me, with Gently uttering threats, and reaching for his gun.  

My father did not say a word, only gazed into my hate-filled eyes, his lower lip quivering slightly.  Whether he could see in my expression, that I knew what they had done–what he had done, so many years ago.  Or he was just caught off guard by my sudden arrival, I’m not entirely certain.  

When I pushed past the sheriff, even his words stopped short when my fist met my dad’s jaw, dropping him to the ground.  He just glared up at me, with shock and guilt in equal measures, etched upon his now swelling face.  

I didn’t linger.  I didn’t stay to have a chat, or ask questions to which I already knew the answer.  I just continued walking back to my car, speeding away from those damned woods, and the two who would be facing my mother’s justice soon enough.  

Though I had no reason to continue this investigation anymore, the hour was late by the time I reached my hotel room.  With the day’s revelations bearing down on my body and mind, I was beyond exhausted.  

I felt filthy, worn down, and broken.  My mind was reeling, while my heart ached for the life I could have had, and the one who was stolen from me.  But, I knew these were things I couldn’t change.  Not anymore.  

I just turned on the television in an attempt to distract my weary thoughts, passing out within seconds after dropping onto the fairly cozy bed.  

Though I hadn’t paid much attention to the time when I nodded off, I still felt groggy and barely coherent when my ringing phone awoke me, early the following morning.  

“Daryl’s dead,” my old man said, his voice trembling, “the station burned down last night…he was alone…everyone else had gone home…He…he didn’t have a chance.”

“And?” I replied, coldly.  

I can’t say I had ever cared for the sheriff.  But, after what I had learned about the night my mother ‘left’, I sure as hell wasn’t about to shed any tears over this.  

“Reckon…reckon I’ll be next…”

“Likely so.” I said, matter of factly.  

“Would you…um…can you come by the house…one last time?” 

“I have no reason to ever see you again, old man.  Besides, I’m headed back home today.” 

“Please, son…please, just let me explain…” 

“Explain? Are you fucking serious!? Explain why you murdered my mother–your wife!? Why you treated me like a goddamn demon in your house?” 

“Please…just…just consider it a dying man’s last request…just…”

I hung up on him before he had the chance to attempt to guilt trip me over his own sins.  Yes, there were answers I still didn’t have–chapters of the story of which I was still unaware.  But I had nothing left to give.  Not to him.  

Some days after returning to my home in the city, I received word about my childhood home having burnt to its foundation.  Whether my mother had indeed found a way to enter, after all these years, or perhaps, he had granted her entry, to finally account for his sins, I can’t say.  

Maybe she didn’t have to step inside, setting the blaze from the exterior, but it doesn’t really matter.  Justice, it would seem, has finally been served.  If nothing else, I would imagine the series of mysterious deaths which haunted my old stomping ground should likely be over now.  

I took one last trip out that way, a couple of months after the dust settled, and life returned to normal, or whatever would qualify as such.  I didn’t go into town, though.  I had friends whom I would catch up with another day, but not this one.  

It didn’t take me any effort to find that clearing in the woods again, regardless of the fact I had only visited that area once before.  I knelt down beside where that no longer charred spot, beneath the ancient tree, had already begun to sprout new life.  

Respecting her craft, after spending a good deal of time over the previous months researching it, I asked the old tree for permission, before carving into its bark.  My mom never had a tombstone, nor any record of her death.  But I hoped that the inscription I left behind would serve as a reminder that she lived.  

‘Here lies the final resting place of Mary Elizabeth Lancaster–my beloved mother, and friend to mother earth.  As above, so below.  As within, so without.  As the universe, so the soul.  I love you, mom.  Rest well, and in peace.’