a deadly storm, an unsolved disappearance, and a small town brimming with secrecy;
an outcast girl, a boy who only knows how to hide, and the world against them;
what could go wrong?
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A week passes following the funeral.
Boo, ever in the business of self-torture, spends every day driving up the winding hill to the skeletal remains of Martha's house. Ever since Monroe flattened a good portion of Jack Creek, most citizens remained few and far between as they attempted to begin rebuilding their lives. Every time she's made the trip up to the house, there's been no sign of any of Martha's neighbors.
Except today; as she speeds up the road, she notices something out of the ordinary.
At the third house on the right, H. Styles is out in the front yard, combing through the wet leaves with a spindly rake. Boo briefly remembers how odd it was that he didn't come out of his house when she returned his bowl, but she doesn't have time to reflect on this as he looks up at the exact moment she drives by. Her foot slams on the brake as she realizes he's the same man who was mysteriously at Martha's grave after the funeral.
His work stops as she exits her car. His arms fold over the pole of the rake and he watches her as she stomps over, her footsteps thundering up the worn concrete path cutting through the dead lawn. Boo can't help but find it odd that instead of trying to chase her off his property, he merely waits for her to reach him.
"You," she says, rather accusingly. He doesn't react to her acrid tone as she walks closer. "You were at the graveyard."
He nods silently, bright eyes squinting back at her through the blazing sunshine.
"Why?" Boo pants, arms crossing over her chest. "You didn't even know her."
His plump lips roll together. "She was my neighbor. I paid my respects."
His voice is deep, much more so than she remembers, and his answer slow, like he's chosen his words deliberately.
Boo can't stop herself from glancing up the hill. The gaping hole in her chest throbs painfully as she's once more met with the sight of empty sky rather than the grand house she so fondly remembers.
"Oh," she mumbles, not realizing Martha must've made friends with him at some point, something beyond borrowing bowls from each other. Weird thing is, she's never heard of him before. "She never mentioned you."
"I asked her to respect my privacy," is his startling reply. She turns to see him returning to his yard work. "I'll ask you to do me the same courtesy."
Boo bristles as her agitation resurfaces. "What's your problem?"
H. Styles glances at her but doesn't respond, merely continuing with his methodical raking.
She tries again. "Why didn't you come out of the house that day?" she presses.
He glances up at her but doesn't reply, again. She waits for a minute, foot tapping anxiously as she hopes for an answer, before she decides he's a lost cause and tromps back to her car. His gaze burns into her back as she walks away. Her nimble fingers slide the car keys into the ignition and she finishes her drive up the hill, barely passing him a fleeting looks as she rolls past his house altogether.
« • »
Two hours later, Boo is loading up her car with the last of the items collected from Martha's house. All that remains now is heaps upon heaps of splintered wood and other remnants of the building's foundation. In her trunk sit three cardboard boxes, barely weighed down by anything. Monroe had taken everything from Martha's house, leaving behind only a handful of water-stained photos and some random memorabilia. To the naked eye, the boxes are filled with random junk; to Boo, they hold the only ties she still has to her grandmother.
She shuts the trunk of her car and leans against the back window for a moment, eyes closed and lips pursed. She breathes in deep through her nose, fighting to keep it together until she can return to the safety of her apartment. The desire to fall apart right there in the street is overwhelming.
No matter how many ways she tries to wrap her mind around it, she just can't make sense of that night. Call it grief, call it fear. But something inside refuses to accept that this is her reality now.
It isn't much; smaller than a seed, just a fraction really; a little bubble of doubt that settles within. Martha had seemed so sure of herself, so strong in her conviction that everything would be alright. Even with a destroyed house, it would've been possible for her to make it out alive.
So why is she now sitting cold and lifeless in a casket underground?
The seed sprouts as Boo drives home, growing tiny little roots that anchor in the depth of her sorrow. She resolves to return to the police station the next day for answers, on the off chance that Monroe isn't the reason Martha died.
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do you think martha died in the hurricane?
why is harry being so secretive?
hmm, so many things to consider! sorry i haven't updated in a little while, i'm really caught up in getting everything written/published for spooky week and making sure to read everyone else's stuff too! but i don't want you to think i'm neglecting this story, and it's technically a mystery so i think it counts. enjoy :)
