Strange in Skin (33 page)

I looked around. I stood in the middle of a living area. There were old paintings and photos hanging
from the walls, two long couches with beautiful handmade throws on the backs of them and a
bookshelf covered in thick hardbacks. It looked like a typical farmhouse would look. It wasn’t
sparkling clean, but it wasn’t filthy either. It was a little cluttered for my taste. Furniture seemed to be
shoved together, more or less. I listened again for any sounds. Hearing nothing, I decided to snoop
around the rest of the place.

A large kitchen extended to the front of the house. There were dishes stacked up in the sink, and the
smell of maple syrup lingered as if she had had a few guests over for breakfast this morning. I reached
above my head and opened up one of the kitchen cupboards. There were just the normal every day
bowls, plates and cups stacked inside. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would render any
hints of what was going on with Emry.

I walked into another room which was obviously a dining area with a large table in the center. It
seemed as if this room was barely used though. The chairs were covered in dust and the table was
covered in mail, opened envelopes and newspapers. I sifted through them for a few moments and
again came up empty handed. I wasn’t sure exactly what it was that I was searching for anyway, I
reminded myself when the disappointment started to settle in.

I turned around another corner and ran my hand over the gray-speckled wallpaper in the hallway.
There was a large, gaping, dark hole at the end of the hallway, and I quickly realized what it was, a
staircase leading to the second floor. My stomach fluttered in both anticipation along with anxiety.
Should I attempt it, or should I just go?
I should probably go
, I told myself. The darkness of the stairs
themselves should’ve been enough to make me feel unwelcome up there. What if I found dead, rotting
bodies or worse, became one of them myself as Mrs. Anderson could cast an evil spell, forbidding
me from ever leaving. An image of remembering Mrs. Anderson in the middle of the snowy field
holding up what was supposed to represent Emry as a piece of wood as she tossed it into the bonfire,
spread itself out across my mind. I took a deep breath. I would only go up for one minute, take a quick
glance around and then come back downstairs and out the window again. I glanced down at my watch.
Every minute more that I lingered in this house was putting me at even greater risk of getting caught.
And then what? I didn’t think I wanted to find out.

The stairs creaked one by one as I took slow strides toward the top. Why was it so dark in here?
Were there no windows, or did she just have them all drawn shut? The lack of sunlight after the
conclusion of a gloomy winter annoyed me. My hand brushed over the banister at the top of the stairs
as my eyes struggled to focus in the shadowy light. There weren’t any windows up in the open area. I
headed down another hallway. This house was larger than it appeared from the outside. I guess that’s
how these old farmhouses went though. A bedroom on the left, another one on the right, a bathroom. It
was a lot of space for just one person to be living here. Then again, her children did visit often, I
assumed, and could stay here if they wanted. Maybe she even had grandchildren for all I knew.

There were two more rooms at the very end of the hallway. One of them was another bedroom, and
the other was filled with junk from wall to wall. Maybe there wasn’t an attic in this house, and this
room served the purpose for storage. There was a window in the room, and I reached across a pile of
papers stacked up from the floor to grab onto the string of the blind to pull it up so I could get an even
better look at what was in here. Particles of dust spread out in the air as the sunlight touched them.
There were a lot of older pieces of furniture in here, antiques for sure that could easily fit into my
mother’s collection at the store. One lamp caught my interest as I studied it momentarily. Farmhouse
memorabilia corroborated with statues of strange animals and pictures of shapes in a multitude of
colors all shoved into anywhere they would fit in this small square room. I blew the dust off another
strange statue of an animal that resembled a monkey, its face twisted in a menacing expression. If
these things belonged to me, not that they really represented my taste or anything, I would want to
display them, not hide them away up here letting them collect all this dust. It seemed like a waste. But
what did I know about Mrs. Anderson? I thought she was odd, and if anything, this just went along
with the strangeness that seemed to coincide with my opinion of her.

In the midst of all the clutter sat a desk that was in desperate need of restoration. It looked as if it
had been left out to weather for years by the color of the wood. I ran my hand over the jagged surface
on top of it. There was a single drawer with an open area underneath it piled full of papers. I opened
the drawer. There was a navy blue metal box inside. It had a place to insert a key on the outside. But
to my surprise when I attempted to open the box, it willingly flung open. There were stacks of
envelopes inside banded together by rubber bands. I picked up one of the stacks and took off the
rubber band. I glanced through them. They appeared to all be old electric bills, farm supply receipts,
etc. I went through the next few stacks of envelopes that were composed of the same things. I shoved
them all back together as I had found them and put them back in the metal box, closing the drawer. My
eyes moved downwards to the papers in the open area below the drawer. They were thrown together
wildly, making it difficult for me to hold onto them as some were sideways in the stack. The papers
themselves were simply more paid bills. They were mixed with old newspaper clippings of
obituaries and some weddings that had occurred decades ago. I recognized the town immediately on
one of the headlines of the newspaper. The article was about Elverson, Pennsylvania. Still seeing
nothing of any real value, I threw the papers back in the space just as recklessly as I found them.

I folded my arms across my chest. Now what? There was nothing here. Mrs. Anderson was a
packrat of strange antique memorabilia unlike anything I had ever come across in my mother’s store.
That didn’t prove anything other than the woman had an odd taste of collections, collections that she
didn’t like to share with anyone else. I quickly pinched my nose as I felt a sneeze coming on. I winced
as my eyes burned while I forced myself to hold it in. I must have been kicking up too must dust.

I opened up the drawer again and peered down at the metal box. I lifted the whole thing up and set
it down on top of the desk. The drawer was entirely empty now. I pushed my hand down on the
bottom of the drawer and felt the bottom piece of wood move loosely within it. I squinted my eyes to
try to get a better look inside the dark compartment. That wasn’t the bottom of the drawer. Someone
had put another piece of wood in here that didn’t quite fit. I was able to dig my fingertips down along
a tiny gap between the wall of the drawer and the edge of the piece of wood. I struggled to pull it up.
Finally it gave, and I was able to lift it upwards and out of the drawer. I set it down on the floor
beside me. There were more folded papers in the drawer. I quickly took them out and into the sunlight
as I unfolded them. One was a small painting without a frame. My heart began to beat in the same
combination of excitement and apprehension that I had felt moments ago when entering the house. My
mouth dropped open as I examined the painting further. It was slightly faded, but I still easily
recognized those rocky cliffs, red hazy sky with brilliant white speckles and high golden grasses in
the background. This was a painting of none other than Emry’s Evadere. It portrayed the real thing
perfectly. What was this doing in Mrs. Anderson’s house? Who could have painted such a thing or
had any knowledge of the place? As questions began to surface inside my head, I unfolded another
piece of paper. My mouth gaped open. It was a birth certificate for Emry Logan.

I felt a little dizzy all of a sudden. All the dust was getting to me along with the way the sunlight
poured in brightly into just one spot of the room, the rest of the place dark with black shadows. I
braced myself against the wall for a few moments trying to take deep breaths. I would not allow
myself to pass out here. My heart beat furiously. I tried to calm myself down, hoping the rhythm of my
heart would cooperate as I did so. After a few more moments, I started to be able to see clearly again.
I allowed myself to attempt to stand straight again without the assistance of the wall. I steadied myself
praying I wouldn’t fall over. I waited just standing there, the papers still in my hand. I felt okay, just a
little sweaty.

I looked back down at the birth certificate. Emry Logan born on July 21, 1988, son of Henry Logan
and Trisha (Fisher) Logan of Seneca, Ohio. These were the names that Emry had given me, the ones
he thought were fake. Underneath the certificate was a small envelope. Inside were some Polaroid
pictures of a small, beautiful child, a little boy with bright blue eyes. It was Emry as a child. He was
a baby in the one standing up in his crib and the others were taken of him as a toddler, maybe a little
over a year old, outside playing in someone’s yard. What was she doing with this? I wanted to scream
it out as loud as I could as it roared within my mind. Had Mrs. Anderson stolen this from Lainey
Tritt’s house? But why? It didn’t make any sense. Why would she care about any of this as long as he
was behind bars? What kind of case was she building up against him?

There were a few other papers underneath the envelope folded up as well. I went to unfold one,
when suddenly I felt someone wrap their arms around me so tight that I could barely breathe. The
papers fell from my reach and scattered on the floor. I struggled with what little strength I had to
break their grasp, but it was no use. They were too strong. They squeezed even tighter, and I winced
as the rest of the air fled from my lungs. They dragged me out of the little room and down the dreary
hallway. I couldn’t see who it was. My back was against their chest. I was certain it was man though.
My legs flailed about as I tried to put up whatever fight I had left within me.

They forcefully carried me down the stairs, my elbows and head bouncing violently off the narrow
walls on the way down. I grunted as my lungs pleaded for me to expand them. A sharp pain radiated
across the front of my chest. The force of the violent suffocation felt as if they were breaking my ribs
one by one. A numbness made its way into my face and blackness crossed my field of vision as I
wasn’t sure exactly where I was anymore. My feet were now limply dragging on the ground behind
me as they refused to put up a struggle.

I heard a door open and then the back of it slamming off the wall, echoing. Then with one giant
heave, they tossed me like a rag doll, and I fell down a staircase, my body rolling, jolted by each turn
and twist as different parts of my body smashed into the steps. Finally everything stopped as I landed
with a hard thud on the cold, hard dirt at the bottom of the stairs. My chest heaved in pain as my lungs
lapped in the moldy air around me. I could feel something wet running down my forehead.
Probably
blood,
I guessed. But the worst pain was my ankle. The pain was so deep, so intense that I curled
over on my side into a ball making a failed attempt to rid myself of it.

“You were warned!” a husky male voice hollered down at me from the top of the stairs.
I felt like I needed to cry, but the sting and burning, as if my ankle had been ripped wide open,

outweighed the emotional upset. Panic overtook me. Was I dying? I felt as if I were. My fingernails
dug into the dirt around me trying to reach out to grasp something, anything to take away what was
happening. But I found no relief from my anguish.

The pain surging up my leg was almost unbearable. I realized instantly that I had been viciously
thrown down stairs that led to a basement area. The floor was merely dirty but compacted down so
much that it felt like cold cement underneath me. There were no real walls as all the electrical wiring
was exposed, and the ceiling was pretty much the same way. It stunk of mold and dampness. There
were a few old crates sitting in a pile in the corner and a coal furnace adjacent to these. There was a
single window at the top of the far wall that looked smaller than my head allowing a sliver of sunlight
through. There was also a wooden door with a huge metal lock shining in front of it as if it were
brand new. I didn’t know what my chances of escape were at the moment, my head frantically trying
to process the amount of pain I was in, but I didn’t think my chances were that great.

I pulled away the palm of my hand that had been covering up my wounded ankle. The shock from
the sight hit me intensely as a puddle of blood surrounded my foot, and the jagged edges of a redtinged bone protruded from my leg surrounded by pink meaty flesh that had been split wide open from
the sharp bone.

My stomach churned. I wasn’t sure what was nauseating me more, the intensity of the pain or the
revolting sight of the wound before me. I twisted over on my side and vomited in the dirt. I wiped my
mouth with the back of my hand. Vomiting had given me little relief. I started to feel the panic settling
in. What was I going to do? What
could
I do? I was crippled in Mrs. Anderson’s basement, locked
up, and no one knew I was here except for whoever threw me down the stairs. I was going to bleed to
death. No one would find me, and this would be my tomb.

The realization was too much to handle. This was all my fault. They were after Emry, and I was the
only one trying to save him. Me against them, and they were too powerful. I should’ve expected
something like this. I had acted without thinking about the consequences of breaking into someone’s
home, especially someone like
her
. She was dangerous and I knew that, but somehow I thought I was
unstoppable, probably because I had gotten away with so much before. My father would come to save
me. Or maybe not. Maybe this would push him over the edge, an unforgivable act of one too many,
and he’d finally abandon me. I wasn’t his real daughter. It would be easier to rid himself emotionally
of me knowing that fact. He thought I had changed things around, that we had all been back to normal
over the course of these last few months and that Emry Logan had been ripped from my mind and my
heart forever. Knowing I’d been snooping around Mrs. Anderson’s house would be too much
disappointment for one man to bear, even that of Pastor John James himself.