Dead Horses

Dead Horses

She took in the air: sweet, fall-dried grass and fresh tossed earth, a whiff of sharp pine nearby. Her nightgown kissed her bare legs in the breeze. A shadow registered briefly behind her, she could hear shadows now, and she felt for its hand. Her other hand clung to the handle of a short leash. When she heard the thunder, she thought at first it was the dog’s growl.

Her white eyes could not see the lightning’s quick flash that drowned the white stones below in a whiter spotlight, a row of uneven teeth in a little smile. Daddy had just set a new one.

“Read this, Davis. Aren’t you intrigued?”

A man with baby cheeks and salty beard peered at the phone screen. He saw the words, “Estate Sale,” and leaned back with a matching sigh.

“No, Mari, we don’t need a damn more thing—”

“—you’re not reading it! Okay, here:

Last horse dead and we’re selling the farm.

Practical, impractical, indescribable.

Cash only. Message if interested.”

“You’ve already set this up, haven’t you?”

Marigold patted her husband’s head.

The rain began 20 minutes in, shrouding the car, the lanes, conversation. Marigold slowed to a crawl, glancing anxiously at Davis, who despised passenger seating no matter the weather. He was cracking his knuckles, crick crick, with some horrible force. She was annoyed with herself for bringing him, his judgy old self, and annoyed at her predictable proclivities. This long drive out would be a tacky bust, and then she’d be apologizing all the way home.

Indescribable.

She’d saved the directions, thank god, because after the fourth turn off the main road internet service ended and Siri was suggesting she go left into a pond.

“Mr. Bob” was specific about where to park and how to contact him once arrived. He advised that the sales articles would be on the lower floor of the family house and to honk her horn on arrival.

Remember that my transactions are cash only, he texted. And then he said, Won’t hurt my feelings if you don’t take to anything.

The CRV, splattered in red mud, wound its way down the rough drive, flanked by pines before yielding to an expanse of sloping field. The rain had simmered to a drizzle, and Marigold inhaled the petrichor soup of dirt and wet grass. Davis percolated a bit, unwinding his window as they closed in on a plain brick house.

“Not whelming,” he declared. “They can’t have much stuff – and anyway, what are we looking for?”

“Um, those ‘indescribables,’ I think – wait—we’re looking for that!”

Davis saw, far down in an oak-clothed copse, a barn. Without his glasses, he could still discern its worn-grey exhaustion and tattered sidings.  And it was fitted with strange lawn decorations, a small crop of white rocks.

“I don’t think he’d mind if we just had a quick look-see first,” and with that, she pulled over to the uncut pasture and parked the car. Davis noticed that there was no vehicle in the drive of the main house many feet upland, and that the windows were dark, which was odd given the very dark day.  

“I think this is called trespassing,” he murmured. He had an idea to keep his voice low, even as he followed his partner down the sloping ground, his calves wet from the licking of the grass, his sandals slick. What the hell was she thinking—

And then before them was the barn. It was steeply gabled with a flourish at the eaves. A large maw opened blackly into the loft area. The doors at ground level appeared to be chained, and the whole structure leaned into the ground.

Surrounding one side were two rows of white river stones set some feet apart. A smell briefly stung the air, an urgent suggestion. 

And before Davis could reach his wife’s side, his eccentric love of 22 years, he heard a low rumble.

A dog. A big shepherd in a black harness was behind them, ears on alert and body quivering. A girl no older than twelve held onto a short handle.

They had been followed since they left the car, Davis realized.

“Hullo!” called Marigold brightly. Davis’ heart caught in thorns as he peered at the girl.  Her eyes seemed to stare into his face, blue skies smothered in a milk of clouds; no, they were staring into his face, he was sure.

“My father suggests you go home.” Her voice was high and flat, unpaired with the dog’s visible tension.

“Oh, honey,” Marigold squeaked. “We just thought, what a lovely old barn, and I am just a curiosity cat, so—”

“My father doesn’t take to strangers snooping,” interrupted the girl. “He told you to honk your horn. At the house.”

The dog trained them with bright eyes.

“We were wondering about this barn,” Marigold prattled on. “These markers. You have a handsome dog. What’s his name? He looks well-behaved.”

Without any apparent signal from the girl, the dog sat.

“Those graves are our horses. My dog is a female. The yard sale is over.”

The girl’s voice grew oddly animated.

“Did you know that guide dogs only walk in a straight line until directed otherwise? Or unless they are protecting their masters from things in their way?”

Davis took Marigold’s arm. But she still carried on--

“Honey, those graves are too small for horse bodies. I was guessing family plot.”

Marigold winced from her husband’s pinch.  We’re leaving, as you can see.”

“You’re about to say, ‘Oh, I didn’t mean that!’,” the blind girl giggled. “It’s okay. Everyone says stupid things. We don’t mind stupid people. If they are respectful.

If you had followed instructions, you could have bought something nice and gone home. We have nice things for people who follow the rules.

But you came to the barn.”

The couple had begun to back away. They didn’t realize their feet were moving.  The odor grew sharper with a faint breeze.  

In the near distance: Blast of shotgun.

“We’re all coming now,” she said.

And you’re the horses.”

The dog began to walk towards the couple, first slowly, then at a trot. The girl jogged behind him.

Davis pushed his wife, “Run,” he screamed.

They ran up the slope, straight on to where their dear, dirty car straddled the road, the dog now untethered running straight ahead. Until she reached any obstacles.

Davis could vaguely feel the ripping of his clothes as he uncurled his balled-up self to hold his shrieking wife. He was blind to the last of his world, but heard:

“Feel, Daddy. Feel all the nice cash. Even more this time. Isn’t Lolly a good girl?”

“One last thing, sugar. You go on and hold your ears now.”

Click.