“I’m tired, Laurel.”

  “Well, I’m not. And I’m driving to the city, tonight. You can come with me, or you can stay, but Max and I are leaving this place.”

  “Laurel, don’t do this ...”

  Ignoring him, she hurried into the bedroom, Max trotting along behind her. Jeremy followed them and stood by the bed while Laurel took a suitcase out of the closet.

  “How long has that been in there?” Jeremy asked, referring to the suitcase.

  “Since I started thinking I might have to do this,” Laurel replied. “Several days, a week, maybe.”

  She put the suitcase on the bed and flung it open. She quickly began taking clothes out of the dresser drawers: underwear, socks, a bra, T-shirts. Hurrying between the dresser and the bed, she quickly filled the suitcase.

  “This place is a trap,” Laurel said, talking while she packed. “Can’t you see that?”

  “I see a woman losing her mind.”

  “Think what you need to, Jeremy. I’m not crazy. I can see it all now—the helpful neighbor, the lawyer who doesn’t exist, the eggs ... what the hell is in them is anyone’s guess.”

  “They’re eggs, for godsake, Laurel.”

  “Do we know that? Do we even know Eileen has chickens? She accused Max of killing them. She’s evil, Jeremy. This whole town is evil.”

  Laurel took two pairs of jeans from the closet, folded them into the suitcase and closed it.

  Before she could make another move, Jeremy reached over and took the suitcase by the handle.

  “You’re not leaving,” he said.

  Laurel stared at her husband. It was the first time she had ever felt threatened by him. She had never imagined him causing her harm, not once, but tonight, when she most needed to run away, he held a suitcase in his hand and told her she was not going anywhere.

  “Give me the suitcase,” Laurel said.

  He did not respond, looking hard at her instead, his expression set.

  It was then she understood.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” Laurel said quietly.

  “Knew what, Laurel?”

  “About the house. About Strickland. About all of it.”

  Jeremy shrugged. He set the suitcase on the floor beside him, blocking Laurel from getting to it.

  “Not at first,” he said. “Not until the offer was made.”

  Her thoughts raced. “What offer?” she asked. “What are you talking about?”

  Jeremy took a deep breath, weighing his words.

  “Think about it,” he said. “Your book is a hit. My acting career is taking off.”

  “I wouldn’t call one commercial—”

  “It’s taking off!” he said, his voice rising.

  Max pressed up against Laurel. A growl began in his throat.

  “We have money. We have fame ... we will have fame, soon, Laurel. This is everything we’ve wanted. It’s a bargain.”

  A dog can smell the Devil.

  “What kind of bargain?” Laurel asked, so quietly she wasn’t sure she’d said it.

  A knock came at the door.

  FORTY-THREE

  LAUREL HAD PACKED WHAT SHE intended to take in a suitcase she could not get to. Hearing the knock, she glanced at Jeremy and saw the expression on his face: a mixture of excitement and dread. It’s as if he was frightened and ecstatic at the same time.

  Max pushed himself against Laurel, his tail down, his teeth bared.

  The knock came again.

  “Who is coming to our house at this hour?” Laurel said.

  “It’s not late,” Jeremy replied.

  “At any hour, then. Nobody comes here, except Eileen. What does she want now?”

  Laurel started to leave the room when Max got in front of her. He positioned himself between her and the doorway, and he began to growl.

  “It’s okay, boy,” Laurel said. “I have to answer the door.”

  Do you, Laurel? she wondered. Let her keep knocking. Let her go away.

  “I’ll get it,” Jeremy said, walking past them into the hallway.

  “Don’t!”

  Laurel was startled by the force of her voice.

  “What is the big deal?” Jeremy said. “You said yourself, it’s just Eileen, with more eggs or maybe she’s here to make peace. I know you’ve had tension with her.”

  “That’s an understatement.” Laurel followed him into the kitchen. “But let me get it, please.”

  Jeremy stopped by the table.

  “Maybe you should,” he said, in a tone that chilled her.

  Max, still agitated, followed along beside her. She got to the front door and opened it.

  The first person she saw was Luther.

  “Hello, Missus Calloway,” Luther said. “I thought you might like some company.”

  The sun had not yet gone completely down. There was still light in the sky, but it was quickly vanishing.

  Laurel was so startled at seeing Luther Maddox at her door that she didn’t immediately see the others.

  “Good evening, Laurel,” Tess said. “It is evening.”

  “They call it the gloaming.”

  Laurel turned to the voice and saw Scott Dunlop. It was the first time she’d seen him since they’d moved into the house. She’d wanted nothing more to do with the young realtor, and here he was, standing beneath her carport, between their car and the door.

  Laurel looked through the screen and saw them all: Eileen, Pete, Scott, Tess, Luther and his family, a dozen more she knew from the general store. She did not open the screen door, instead leaning into it and peering outside.

  “They’re all here,” Jeremy said from behind her.

  Thwack.

  The sound, very close this time. Laurel knew that if she stepped outside and looked, she would see Joe the woodsman at the tree line, not far from the house.

  “What do you want?” Laurel said.

  Eileen stepped forward. Staring up at Laurel, she said, “It’s time to collect.”

  Max pushed his muzzle between Laurel and the screen. His growl was deep and threatening.

  Thwack.

  “Collect what?” Laurel said, unable to keep the fear from her voice.

  Eileen said, “You signed a contract, Dear.”

  It’s a bargain. Laurel remembered Jeremy’s words, and what a bargain meant. A bargain is a deal. A bargain is a trade.

  “I never signed anything.”

  “Oh, but you did.”

  Eileen held up a manila envelope, its back clasp sealed with red string.

  “What’s that?” asked Laurel.

  “It’s what you couldn’t find in the garage,” Jeremy said, so close behind her she could feel his breath on her neck. “It’s what made this all possible, our dreams coming true. It’s something to celebrate, not fear.”

  “Yes,” said Eileen. “Celebrate.”

  Laurel felt time warp again, a dizziness coming over her. She glanced at the sky—it was dark now. How could it have gotten so dark so quickly?

  Thwack.

  Closer, just beyond the side of the house.

  What is he hitting? Laurel wondered. There’s no wood in the yard.

  “Who are you?” Laurel asked, to none of them and all of them.

  “It’s not who we are,” Luther replied. “It’s who he is.”

  “Joe,” said Laurel.

  “That’s one of his names,” Eileen said.

  Laurel heard both sadness and regret in her voice.

  Continuing, Eileen said, “Joe is an emissary of sorts. You could call him the Devil’s debt collector, and the Devil gets his due. It won’t hurt, Dear. You won’t feel a thing. Just give him your soul and get on with your life. It’s going to be a great life. The Devil keeps his end of a bargain, too.”

  Max lunged at the screen door.

  Eileen stepped back but did not give more ground. There were too many of them. Even if Laurel let Max protect her, what could one dog do against a dozen strangers?

  “You’re insane,” Laurel said. “Get off my property.”

  “It’s not your property,” Pete said. “It was never your property.”

  Laurel felt as if she’d lost her balance. Putting her hand on the doorframe to hold herself steady, she said, “But we bought this house. We signed ...”

  “This,” Eileen said, holding out the envelope again. “You should always read the fine print.”

  I didn’t read any of it, Laurel thought. I just ... was so excited ... I signed, that’s all ...

  Laurel felt Jeremy’s hand on her shoulder. “We’re in this together,” he said. “I signed it, too.”

  She turned around and faced him. “But you knew what you were signing, didn’t you?”

  He smiled.

  Laurel brought her knee up into his groin. She had never struck a man before, never struck anyone. The suddenness of it shocked her. She stared in disbelief as Jeremy doubled over.

  “Now, Max,” she said, taking the opportunity, the quick, passing chance, to force Jeremy backward into the table. He reached out to stop himself from falling and missed, tumbling to the floor.

  She ran for the closet. She heard the screen door knob rattling: Jeremy had locked it behind him when he’d come home, he always did. It was the one city habit—locking doors—she was grateful he still had.

  Max stood guard at the closet door, letting loose with a series of loud, frantic barks.

  Laurel threw the closet door open and reached in for the shotgun. She heard Jeremy getting up from the floor behind her. She gripped the barrel of the gun and jerked it out from behind the coats.

  The shells, Laurel, she thought. You have to have the shells.

  “Stop him, Max,” she heard herself say.

  A moment later Max had his teeth buried in Jeremy’s leg.

  “Goddamn it!” Jeremy shouted. “Goddamn this dog!”

  She reached back into the closet, her hand thrusting toward the corner, feeling for the box of shotgun shells ... and not finding it.

  “Is this what you’re looking for?” Eileen said.

  It’s over. Laurel heard herself as if someone else had said it, someone far away.

  She turned around slowly, the shotgun useless in her hands. She saw Pete outside, holding the box of shells.

  Max had let go of Jeremy’s leg, turning his attention back to the screen door.

  “How did you get those?” Laurel asked, her voice weak.

  “Jeremy was kind enough to give them to us,” Eileen said, answering for her husband. “Including the two you think are in the gun.”

  “I’m sure he was,” Laurel said. “Kind enough to sign my soul away ...”

  “Oh, you signed it, too,” Eileen said. “The Devil’s contracts are binding.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” Laurel said. “All of you.”

  Thwack.

  At the side of the house now.

  The crowd parted as Joe stepped into view.

  Laurel screamed.

  Max lunged at the door, ripping through the screen.

  Jeremy was standing now, his eyes wide as he took in what was happening.

  Laurel grabbed the shotgun barrel with both hands and swung it, bringing the gun butt smashing into Jeremy’s face.

  She heard the worst sound of her life then: Max whimpering, held tight to the woodsman’s chest by the woodsman himself. She watched as Max struggled to break free. Of all the horrible things that had happened, this was perhaps the worst. Her only friend, her only protector in this madhouse, was being crushed in front of her.

  “Let him go!” she shouted. She ran, gun in hand, and burst through the door, charging into the woodsman.

  Even the Devil’s courier, it seemed, could be taken off guard. Joe, his face a window into another world, a world from which no one returns, staggered back.

  Max fell to the ground. Pete dropped the box of shells, scattering its contents on the ground as the crowd moved back. Mayhem presented the only chance Laurel had, and she took it. She scrambled, grabbing two shells with trembling hands and shoving them into the chamber.

  “He won’t hurt you,” Eileen insisted. “He only wants what’s inside you. You won’t even notice the difference.”

  Ignoring the woman who had brought them to this abyss, Laurel aimed the gun at Joe and fired. The sound tore the night, the recoil threatening to send Laurel falling backward, but she held her ground.

  Joe’s hand reached up to his chest. He was more startled than harmed.

  Why did you think you could kill him? Laurel wondered. What a foolish woman you are.

  She couldn’t hurt someone who was not alive, but she could hurt Eileen ... or Pete, or Luther, or any of them. She swung the barrel around and aimed it at Pete.

  “Who’s the widow now?” she asked.

  “Don’t!” Eileen shouted.

  Pete started to back away.

  “Stop where you are,” Laurel said. “Or I’ll stop you.”

  They had reached a standoff. If Joe came for her, she would put a hole in Pete’s chest. If the others moved toward her, she would put a hole in Pete’s chest. If anything but her escape presented itself, she would be sure she wasn’t the only one losing their soul tonight.

  “Throw my keys to me,” she said, talking to Jeremy. He’d remained inside, watching through the ripped screen. “Now!”

  “Give her the keys,” Eileen said. “We don’t need more bloodshed.”

  More bloodshed, Laurel thought. This was not the first time. Maybe it was the third, or the tenth.

  “Who is in the basement?” Laurel asked, reaching down quickly with her free hand for the car keys Jeremy had tossed onto the driveway.

  “They tried to break their bargain, too,” Eileen said. “Only that time it was both of them. At least we still have Jeremy. Don’t we, Jeremy?”

  Laurel backed her way to her car. Max, dazed but alive, followed her as she opened the front door. “Get in,” she said.

  Max leapt up and threw himself into the back seat.

  The crowd did not come for her. They did not try to block her exit.

  Jamming the key into the ignition, Laurel watched as first Joe, then the others, turned their attention to the front door. Jeremy stood there, frozen, backlit by the kitchen light.

  The last look Laurel saw on her husband’s face was terror.

  She threw the car into reverse and backed out of the driveway, wishing one of them, any of them, had tried to stop her so she could run them over.

  She jerked the car into drive and sped off down the road.

  Even with the windows closed she could hear her husband’s scream.

  “We’re free, Max,” she said, speeding down the dark road.

  She was glancing in the rearview mirror, watching the patch of land that had been her home disappear into darkness. Turning her attention back to the road, she almost didn’t see Beth stumbling out of the woods.

  “Oh my God,” Laurel said, slamming on the breaks.

  Beth waved her arms at the headlights. Bloody, scratched arms. Her face, too, was harmed, misshapen and stained. Her clothes, ripped jeans and a blood-soaked blouse. Her feet bare.

  Laurel knew in that moment Beth had not left. She had been taken, held captive, and now, with everyone’s attention on the collection of one man’s soul, she had escaped.

  Laurel waved Beth to the car. She rolled down her window, shouting, “Get in! Now!”

  Beth stumbled to the passenger door, barely making it to the car without collapsing onto the road.

  “Are you okay?” Laurel asked, immediately knowing what an absurd thing it was to say.

  Beth said nothing, managing to get in the car and close the door.

  “Don’t worry,” Laurel said, “just hold on. We’re getting out of here.”

  Beth smiled in the darkness.

  The headlights went out.

  The engine died.

  FORTY-FOUR

  SUSAN DIETZ COULD NOT BE more excited. She and her husband, Michael, had been talking about moving to the country for the past two years. Obligations had made it little more than a fantasy, with Michael tied to his job in Newark and Susan working part-time at a Staples while she took care of her mother. The strain of coping with a parent suffering from cancer—her father had abandoned them when Susan was still a child—had left her too thin, too stressed, and too exhausted. Her mother, Linda, had finally succumbed in June, and as guilty as it made her feel to be relieved, the change in her had been profound.

  “You’re your old self again,” Michael had told her a month after the funeral. “My Susan is back.”

  My Susan. Many women would take umbrage at the sense of belonging it implied, as if she were Michael’s possession. But Susan, at thirty-six, felt cared for when he said these things. She liked feeling owned, just like she enjoyed owning Michael. They had been in love for sixteen years, and while passion was no longer the fire beneath their marriage, they both felt it in a deeper, more lasting way. They had passion for each other, for their life together, for their shared desires. One of those desires had been to leave city life. Now that her mother was gone and Michael had succeeded in convincing his employer to let him work from home most days, they could make a move. Hello, country. Goodbye, Newark.

  Susan was imagining all the vegetables she could grow in a backyard garden when they saw it: a house on the side of the road, almost hidden by fir trees.

  “Where are we?” Michael asked, peering through the windshield as he drove, as if he could get his bearings by looking at the cloud cover above.

  “Stop!” Susan said. “There’s a house for sale.”

  Michael put the brake on and stopped the car just feet from a For Sale sign.

  “You don’t want this house,” a voice said from the back.

  Laurel Calloway sat up between the seats. “Just keep going.”

  “No, wait,” Susan said. “I want to see this place. And it’s for sale by the owner.”

  The sign had a phone number written on it in black marker.

  “We have an appointment,” Laurel said, referring to a showing they’d arranged for another house.

  “Let’s just take a peek,” said Susan, reaching for her door handle. “It won’t take long.”

  “I’m telling you,” Laurel replied, “the owners won’t call you back.”

 

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