Page 16 of Dead of Summer

HENRY

The fog blows in suddenly, a woolen blindfold that turns the windows of the house a blank gray.

Even the sound of the waves is muffled as Henry steps out onto the deck.

It is times like this, when there is no one to see, nothing to make a record of, that Henry feels like he is living on the edge of the world.

He is finally giving in to Margie’s prodding. It’s a good time to go take care of things. The fog will give him enough cover if he moves quickly.

With a growing sense of dread, he picks up a bucket and descends the stairs to the dock. He tries to avoid the sag in the steps, stepping lightly on the edges. He mentally adds them to the list of things he’ll need to fix soon.

But he doesn’t want to face all that now.

One thing at a time. When he reaches the bottom of the steps he turns away from the dock and doubles back, ducking underneath the stairs instead.

He carefully steps off the wood and up onto the rock below the house.

It is dark down here. The entire thing has been shifting.

The stilts are weatherworn and covered in wet moss, the bright green of it garish in the opaque light.

Henry will need to replace some of them soon, before the entire house topples into the sea.

His feet scrape along the jagged face of the rock, sending small stones flying.

He takes the familiar path under the house, ducking through the pylons, his feet slipping into the crags until he reaches the far side of the island, the one facing away from Hadley.

Here the rock cleaves apart, giving way to a shallow divot filled with small stones.

He slides down the angular face of the shale until his feet hit the pebbles below.

It’s lower here than anywhere else. Close to sea level.

This is the only place on the Rock where the ground is soft enough to dig.

He looks for the marker, his heart thrumming as he scans the rocks, nervous at first that it has washed away.

He finally finds it closer to shore than he remembers.

It is simple, almost tragically so, a single heavy gray stone that stands out only because of its relative size and uniquely smooth surface streaked with a spiderweb of white lines.

Henry swallows. Margie was right, he’s put it off for too long.

The area has been hit by a recent storm surge, which, combined with a full moon, brought the tide farther in than he’d ever seen it.

The small stones around the marker have washed away, forming a deep divot on either side, exposing more than he’d expected.

The dampness has made its way through his thin shirt.

He shivers. Now he’ll have to make up for lost time.

Henry works diligently, moving back and forth to the water’s edge to collect bucketfuls of sand and rocks.

His muscles strain with the effort, dumping them into the opening and smoothing them into the cracks, making sure nothing is exposed.

He hears a motor through the fog. A set of waves comes in soon after, a wake from some nearby boat.

It sends water up to his ankles. Breathing heavily, Henry watches, helpless as some of the new sand washes away.

The house creaks above him. The island itself has been slowly deteriorating, the rock breaking and shifting, pieces of it sliding into the sea as though it is trying to give away his secrets.

A foghorn blares offshore. The sound startles Henry and he slips.

His leg slides into a crack in the rock.

His yelp of pain is absorbed by the clouds.

The rock opening is new, a sharp cut where it was once smooth.

His shoe is wedged inside the opening. There is a dribble of bright blood on his leg when he finally pulls it free.

He looks down, watching with a sick feeling in his stomach as it trickles down the side of his shoe and onto the wet rocks.

The sky is already beginning to clear as Henry staggers back toward the dock.

He feels the sun on his back as though it has caught him doing something untoward.

He rushes toward the safety of the house and the comfort of his telescope.

He tries not to linger on what he’s just done.

But as he climbs the stairs up from the dock, he hears Margie’s voice in his head, anyway: We have no choice, Henry.

It’s the only place that makes sense to bury someone.