The House of Dust by Noah Broyles

Author:Noah Broyles [Broyles, Noah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inkshares
Published: 2021-06-23T20:29:38+00:00

22

Later, sitting at my desk in the house, I played the eyeless girl’s words back. Out of everything she’d said, one phrase burrowed into my mind and lodged there: shallow place. Shallowness conjured something subterranean; from shallow places you could reach into the depths. And the depths could reach back. The house, she’d said, was one of these places.

—“The House of Dust”

Southern Gothic

“You kidnapped a child,” Walt said.

He still hadn’t shaved, and the stubble darkened his face. Behind him the windows were black, the curtains open, letting out the light. Letting in the night.

Missy set down the spoon of tomato soup she had been attempting to fit between the boy’s tight teeth and got up. She rounded the table, gripped the drapes, and pulled them closed. Even then, the house did not feel secure. It was the central cave in a labyrinth, eager to carry their voices to a prowler.

Resuming her seat, she picked up the spoon. Her hands were still smooth, revived. And trembling. “I wish you’d been here earlier. Some explaining needs to be done.”

“Understatement.”

“By you.”

Walt looked right through her, spooning up his soup in even increments. “About what?”

“About a lot of things. About this place.”

“I thought you decided you liked it here.”

“I said if being here meant more of you. But it hasn’t. Just a lot of other things.”

The spoon pointed. “I have to work. It’s my responsibility. And it’s yours not to make that harder by abducting children.”

“They were killing him!” she burst out. “They had buried him alive in a field! And if you’re not surprised and horrified by that, then there’s a lot you need to tell me.”

He blanched. “No. Of course. But could you see a motive? Why were they doing it?”

“I don’t care why! He’s a child! He doesn’t deserve to be treated the way—”

Walt’s spoon had shifted to point at the boy.

“He’s saying something.”

Twisting, she looked at Roy. He had straightened a bit from his slump. He was looking earnestly at Walt. His lips had formed a tight oval that opened and closed.

Leaning nearer, she listened. “He’s saying him.” Then the boy’s voice was loud in her ear, and she pulled away as he spoke clearly.

“They were giving me to him.”

Walt lowered his spoon and swirled it in his bowl. “Who is him?”

The boy rocked and then flickered, as if the electricity in his body had shorted out for a second.

Missy stood and gripped the boy’s shoulders. She shot a gaze at Walt and opened her mouth to speak.

Three short knocks at the front door bounded up the hall.

“The sheriff!” Her guts cinched. “Is the door locked?”

Walt blinked. Rising, he went into the hall and looked toward the front door.

“Don’t let him in,” she said.

“If he’s looking for the child, I have to—”

“No. He doesn’t know Roy’s here. But he’ll ask. You have to tell him he’s not here; tell him to go away.”

He put his hands in his pockets. “If the sheriff wants that boy, there’s a reason.”

The knocking again, three quick hammer blows.

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