Page 42 of Buried Souls
I know what I saw.
I know what I lived through.
I know I’m not crazy.
The hidden narrow stairway leading up to the Bear family’s crypt appears before me, and not a moment too soon, I find myself standing in the very same circular room. And just like before, five coffins, one smaller than the rest, arranged in a solemn half-circle upon a raised platform of black marble, greet me. Portraits in an ornate, dust-choked frame, hang aboveeach coffin. Heavy black veils are draped over the paintings, concealing the faces beneath, and I storm to the first one, yanking it down and revealing the subject beneath.
An older man—someone that I imagine Nikolas to resemble when he grows gray, stares back at me. I repeat the steps, tugging the veils until all are laid bare. But instead of relief, horror floods me, because the faces on the last two paintings are ones I recognize.
Ones I know all too well.
“No,” I stutter, taking a step back. “Impossible.”
My foot catches on something on the ground, and I look down.
A pair of small, brass plaques glitter at the base of the last two coffins. I kneel, my hand trembling while I brush away the dust.
Rein Bear.
And on the very last one:Hunter Bear.
I back away, limbs shaking. My mind spirals.
How is this possible?
I—I saw them. I talked to them. Lived with them. They were both alive.
No.
No.
I try to recall our interactions, how they always seemed to be wearing the same clothes—the very same clothes that they are wearing in the paintings hanging above their coffins.
“Oh, God.” I wheeze for air. “Oh, God.”
And Nikolas?
I search the crypt for a sixth coffin, but come up empty.
What was he? A figment of my imagination?
“He never talked to his brothers,” I blurt out, hands flying to my head as I remember. “They talked to him, buthenever acknowledgedthem.”
My mind spirals out of control, and I fear I might faint.Somehow, I make my way to the only room that I still haven’t visited: Niko’s.
The bed is covered with a white linen sheet. On it, a single red rose lies.
My favorite flower.
I pick it up, twirling it between my fingers, inhaling the scent that has followed me even into my dreams.
Who put it here?
The air shifts, and I go still.
My skin prickles.
Cedar and pine engulf me before strong arms wrap around my trembling frame, and smoke and velvet whisper softly in my ear, “Welcome home, little lamb. I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me, my lovely wife.”
