Greta said. “Did you see the blood on the carpet?”
“No,” Beetle replied, thinking about Shylock and his sons for the first time since waking. The knuckles of his right hand, he realized, ached dully. He took another, longer toke from the spliff, then handed it to the woman.
She accepted it and said, “Yeah, there is. Blood. There’s a trail leading all the way to the stairs. And I swear it wasn’t there before I went to dinner.” She offered him a sly smile. “Maybe it has something to do with the legends?”
Beetle frowned, wondering what legends she was talking about, and why he thought he should know.
“The legends,” she repeated, seeing his confusion. “Like the church.” She pointed.
Beetle followed her finger. The fog had continued to dissipate even as they spoke, eradicated by the rain, and all that remained of it were whiffs of white condensation drifting up here and there through the roof of the moonlit forest. Squinting, he could make out a white structure atop a small rise some distance away.
Beetle remembered the two kids in town telling him something about upside down crosses. He mentioned this.
Greta nodded. “Creepy, right? Everybody says the church was built by Satanists to perform black masses in the basement.”
“Who’s everyone?” he asked, eyeing the joint. She held it between her fingers, letting it burn, wasting it.
“Well, just these two English backpackers I bought the pot from. I met them last night in a hostel in Cleveland. They said this place is called Helltown. It sounded neat, so I drove down this morning to check it out for myself. But the fog was so bad I decided to stay overnight and try again tomorrow.” She finally took a drag of the joint and passed it to him. “Finish it,” she said, and retrieved a paper cup from the table behind her. She held it up for him to see. “Wine. Classy, I know. But it was the only glass in the room. I think you’re supposed to use it to rinse toothpaste out of your mouth.”
Beetle puffed away, and he realized he wasn’t just drunk or high. He was ripped. He wasn’t going to be able to walk let alone think in a minute—and that was a-okay with him.
He flicked the roach into the night and gripped the railing so he didn’t fall over.
“Anyway,” Greta said, and he heard her light a cigarette, smelled the burning tobacco. “The church is just one of the legends. There’s so much other stuff.” She gestured to the forest. “Like all abandoned houses. There’re dozens of them, just sitting out there, empty. It’s true. The English guys showed me pictures they took. And there’s a cemetery at the end of a dead-end road that’s filled with kid graves. The English guys said a serial killer waved down a school bus years ago and murdered everyone on board. It’s in the woods, the bus. They showed me pictures of it too. The trees have grown up around it. Hard to find, but I have a map. The English guys drew it for me. The English guys—that sounds so stupid, doesn’t it? I don’t know why I keep calling them that. Anyway, they said they met someone who slept overnight in the bus, and he said he heard all these strange noises. Hey, are you sleeping? Open your eyes.”
Beetle opened them. The world canted. He gripped the railing tighter.
“Wow, you’re trashed,” Greta said, dropping the cigarette to the ground and stubbing it out with the toe of her shoe.
“I think I’m going to watch TV,” he said, moving to the door. He tripped trying to get around the chair, but stayed on his feet.
“Hey, wait up! What about tomorrow? Do you want to come with me to check out the church and cemetery and stuff? It will be more fun with someone.”
“Can’t,” he told her. “Thanks for the smoke.”
Greta said something more, but Beetle was already stumbling inside his room. The warmth from the heater made him realize how chilly it had been outside. His hands were stiff and numb. He set the vodka on the Formica table and withdrew the Beretta from the waistband of his pants, comforted and chilled by its cold, heavy weight. Then he remembered he’d told Greta he was going to watch TV, so he powered the thing on.
It was bizarre, he thought, he was going to kill himself in a moment, blow his brains out all over the ugly floral wallpaper, she would