Peppering the surface were hundreds of maggots, their tiny white bodies glistening with slime under the flickering blue light of the candles. As grotesque as this sight was, it was not the reason Matilda screamed, for this was not the worst thing in the box—not the worst by far.
Near its center, barely visible under the thick layer of earth, rested the mutilated carcass of a cat. Its throat had been violated with a ragged tear, the pink muscle and yellow fat beneath exposed to the air, causing the carcass to brown and dry just the slightest.
As I stared past into the dirt, I realized the feline was not alone; nearly a dozen dead rats also dotted the black earth, their fur so filthy I could barely distinguish them from the dirt. The smell should have repulsed me, but I found the scent oddly calming.
When my arm began to itch at this thought, I took a step back to find Matilda staring at me. “Did Nanna Ellen slaughter those animals?”
In my mind, I saw her glaring down at me from the ceiling, her red eyes glowing with hatred and hunger, and I knew that she could do such a thing, even if I didn’t want to believe it. Then a worse possibility dawned on me. “You said Thornley passed a bag to Nanna Ellen in her room, a bag containing something alive . . .” I let the word hang, unwilling to complete the thought aloud.
“Thornley wouldn’t do such a thing,” Matilda insisted.
I thought of the chickens at the coop, the excitement in his face. A fox, he had said. A fox did this.
“What purpose do these serve?” Matilda pointed at the crate’s lid, leaning against the side. “The top is riddled with holes. For air? Maybe the animals were meant to live inside that box and didn’t survive the journey.”
“It’s filled to the rim with dirt. Nothing was meant to live here.” I knelt down beside the crate and inspected the lid closely. Nails peppered its edges, but even though they appeared to be thick, the nails did not protrude to the other side as one might expect; they had been cut off. Fake nails, in other words. Providing only the mere illusion of nails. On the inside of the lid, I discovered six small hasps. I stood and took a look at the crate again.
“Those latches are designed to hook over these staples. I think the lid is designed so someone can lock it from the inside. The false nails give the appearance of being sealed by a hammer, but of course that is not the case.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Does any of this make sense?” I replied, gesturing around the room.
“Look at your hand,” Matilda said in a low breath.
The handkerchief I had wrapped over the wound earlier had fallen away, revealing my palm.
“The cut is gone.”
I held my hand to the light, trying to hide the slight tremor that started at my pounding heart and worked its way down my arm. The skin had healed; there was no sign of the injury. “It was a small cut,” I heard myself say, knowing the words meant nothing even as they slipped from my lips.
Matilda took my hand in hers, turned it over, then back again. “It was bad enough. There is no sign remaining. Nothing at all.”
I shook her off.
She frowned. “We need to talk about this.”
“Not now.”
“What did she do to you?”
“Nanna Ellen might return at any moment.”
“I thought you said you couldn’t feel her presence anymore. How do you know she was here at all?”
“We saw her here yesterday,” I replied.
“Bram, you must be truthful with me. Can you tell? Was she here on this night?”
I had no reason to deceive her. I nodded. “In this very room, yes. As recently as the past hour.”
I watched Matilda glance around at the many cobwebs and the thick dust, and I understood what thoughts raced through her mind. “I’m not sure how she moved about without disturbing anything, but I am