Page 1 of Buried Beneath Sin

1

SAGAN

Idream of different ways to kill my father.

He wasn’t a good man when I knew him. I’m fairly certain he still isn’t. But even if heisa decent fellow now, I don’t give a rat’s ass. The fucker has to die—preferably by my hand.

Sometimes I can still smell his stale breath and feel the ringing in my ears during moments he’d holler in my face—typically to curse my existence and blame me and my twin brother, Thatcher, for ruining my mother’s perfectly tight cunt. A tragedy for him, I’m sure.

For most of my adult years I’ve constantly pushed thoughts of him to the back of my mind. He’s not worth remembering. Despite my efforts, he’ll make an appearance in my dreams from time to time. Vivid nightmares in which the remembered pain of him digging his index finger into each of the cigarette burns he left in my skin jerks me awake and leaves me drenched in sweat at least four or five times a year. As if the scars aren’t enough of a reminder of his cruelty.

I’m not sure why those memories haven’t been chased away by the ones where Thatcher and I sawed off those same fingers with a rusted drywall saw. Now that was a good time which deserves to be played on repeat.

I guess I’m just not that lucky.

But my luck is about to turn around. Patrick Hunt’s death is near—I can feel it as surely as I can the cool October night’s breeze that skims across my face. His flimsy light is about to be snuffed out, and I’ll be the one to do it.

Unfortunately, it won’t happen tonight.

Some disappointment about that bubbled up during my conversation with Thatcher a month ago when we decided I should come pay dear old dad a visit. I didn’t want to wait, but I understood the reasoning for it. While I might not be able to kill him this visit, I’ll be able to soon. I just need to be patient. Things are being set in motion and tonight is the first step in Thatcher’s plan.

Beneath my boots, old leaves crunch and crackle. Twigs snap and creatures scurry away. Usually, I’m quieter than this, and I’ll have to be soon. For now, however, I’m too far from the house to be heard or even seen as I move through the sparse woods on the vast property.

The pale moonlight, just bright enough to pass through the thin clouds overheard, is just enough for me to see by. My flashlight goes unused in my back pocket, but close by as I might need it later. The soft sound of frogs croaking reaches my ears. Good, that means I must be nearing the pond. According to the satellite images of this place, the small body of water, just on the other side of the unused, overgrown graveyard, is my halfway point to the house.

My pace doesn’t quicken despite my eagerness to get this done.

I’m not one to rush a job. Never have been, never will be. Some people can’t handle the anticipation. That simmering of energy in the blood, the drying of the mouth, and racing of the heart? I bottle that shit up, savor the discomfort, and bask in thethrill. The waiting game hasalwaysbeen my thing. I could wait out the second coming of Christ and then some.

Not that I know anything about Christ. The only thing I have in common with that guy is that both his father and mine put us through hell.

The pond comes into view as the woods come to an abrupt stop. I hardly spare the small, algae-ridden, lily-pad-filled body of water a glance. If you’ve seen one pond, you’ve seen them all. As I draw nearer, I can’t help but notice how this one smells particularly foul. The stale water is a breeding ground for mosquitos and horse flies. The corner of my upper lip curls in irritation as they buzz around my face. Thankfully, my hoodie and jeans are enough to protect me from the worst of their bites. The frogs don’t seem to mind my presence. The small slimy creatures continue to sing as I round their home, being extra cautious as I avoid the soft mud.

I don’t want to leave any evidence of my presence.

The graveyard beyond the pond is a pathetic patch of land with maybe two dozen partially visible, moss-covered, crumbling headstones. My eyes land on the few that can actually be seen through the overgrown grass and tangled vines. They’re blank. Whatever words were once inscribed on them have long since faded, and just like the bodies beneath the tombstones, they’ve been forgotten.

I continue my steady progression toward another cluster of trees. Here, the ground begins to elevate. I wouldn’t call it a hill given how slight of an incline there is, but still, there issomeelevation. These trees are thinner and there’s an old gravel trail I can just make out that gives me a path to follow without leaving footsteps.

When the trees break this time, I come to the back of a one-story brick building. The tall, four car garage attached to it is newer than the rest of the building but not by much. Iknow, thanks to Knox doing some digging online and finding the blueprints, that this is where they keep the cremation furnace and the hearse and company van. From what I can see of it, the place needs some TLC. Bricks are chipped or missing, one window is barred and boarded up, and the back door looks dented and rusted.

So this is Bright Starr Funeral Home—the business my father helps run. Apparently it’s family owned and operated. A familyhemarried into, not one he created. Of course the bastard would find one of the only businesses thatcan’tgo under, at least not without trying really hard to fuck it up. Death is a constant in this world.

There’s probably no one who knows that better than I do.

The night’s breeze picks up for a moment, sending a slight chill down my spine. If I was a superstitious individual, I’d probably be creeped out by the entire estate, but, thankfully, I don’t lack common sense. This place is just a shithole. That’s what gives the whole property a dreary vibe. How do you run a business like this into the ground? You have to be an idiot. Which, given who’s running the funeral home, isn’t all that far from the mark. My gaze traces every inch of the building once more before eyeing the roof. The amount of work it would take to get this place looking acceptable would be enormous and this is just judging it based on the back of the building. What do the front and the inside look like? Have they doneanyrenovations since it opened fifty-odd years ago?

If I had to guess, I’d say probably not.

I’m good with my hands and enjoy a challenge, butthis? Fuck… This will take a lot to bring up to our standards. My back aches just thinking about it. Neither Thatcher nor Knox are too keen on holding any tool besides a knife so it will mostly be me doing the work. I knew it’d be bad, and so did Thatcher; it’s why he sent me to check the place out—so I could be his eyes.Thatcher might be the planner, but between the two of us, I’m the one that tends to put things in motion. And Knox? His ability to come up behind us and put finishing touches on all the things we do is like watching an artist work.

I turn my head to assess the small shed a few yards away. That, too, looks like shit. In fact, given the way the roof is caved in and most of one side is completely missing, I consider it condemnable. At least the rats look fat and happy. I eye the creatures as they dart back and forth out of the shed and into the tall grass. We’ll have to completely demolish that in our takeover. Wonderful, more work. As if the landscaping and revamping the funeral home won’t be enough.

I take mental notes as I start to move again. Slinking through the shadows of the funeral home, I round the building. Rather than head to the front where a small parking lot resides, I head up the only actual hill on the property. I avoid the wide steps built into the hill, keeping to the east side of the tall, three-story house, where there are fewer windows and hardly any light spills out from the ones there are.

The house is in about as bad a shape as the business at the bottom of the hill. As I approach, I note the dilapidation. The paint has faded on most of the siding. Boards are warped and filled with small holes, almost like bullets have flown through them at some point. The windows of the house are filthy, some even cracked. The stairs on the front porch look ready to give way at any second, and the front porch light, a lantern that hangs just above the door, is flickering on and off. This place probably hasn’t seen a single renovation since it was built back in the early nineteen hundreds. In its current state, it looks like it probably houses more ghosts than the graveyard I passed.

For a man that owns a business in death and who should be loaded, it looks like things haven’t been going great for dear old dad.

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