NOW:
The morning after Billy Buckley took office, Adam retired the tan hat and vest he had worn throughout his varied career as a lawman. Reclaiming the black hat he had once rarely been seen without, he donned pants, boots, and a shirt of the same color. Though he had worn the unlustrous garb years before, reaching for it day after day until it became ubiquitous with his very presence, there was something foreign and discrepant about it now. It didn't seem befitting anymore.
He had only worn dark clothes once since his return. The day he had stepped foot back into Virginia City after being shot down, the faintest hint of the bloody accusation of MURDER still visible on the wall of the sheriff's wall, was the last occasion he had dared dress so forebodingly. He had wanted the townsfolk to see him then, to be reminded of who he was. He was Adam Cartwright, the oldest son of Ben's now-four. Intelligent, capable, sturdy, and strong, he was a force to be reckoned with if baited and pushed. Though he had once worn the clothes to remind others of all he was, now he wore them to remind himself of what he was not. If the startling darkness of his apparel caused him to stand out, it was the opposite of his intention. He was hoping it would allow him to blend in. With the towering gallows he had erected still standing in the center of town and Billy Buckley the lawman entrusted to properly use it, such a thing didn't seem likely.
If Eddie found his choice of attire odd, she did not address it. Ben seemed to ignore the change when he came upon his oldest son that morning, even though Adam knew it had been noticed, judging by the brief glint of recognition in his father's dark eyes. The only person who commented on Adam's clothes—or at least did not know enough about the past not to—was Jamie.
"Are you mournin' something?" he innocently asked. Standing in between Adam and their father in the Virginia City thoroughfare, he looked his eldest brother up and down.
Ben and Adam frowned in unison. Adam was too taken aback to form a proper reply. If Ben had conceived of one, he was not eager to speak it. "Off with you," he ordered his youngest son. "You'll be late for school if you dawdle any longer."
"Oh, and that'd just be a cryin' shame," Jamie sarcastically huffed.
Ben's expression darkened. "Go on," he ordered, his voice reaching a cavernous intonation. "Get."
Standing stubbornly in place, Jamie looked at Adam, and, finding no assistance or guidance forthcoming, he sullenly adhered to the instruction.
"That boy is going to be the end of me," Ben said, watching Jamie disappear down the thoroughfare.
"Oh, come on, Pa," Adam said. "You survived Little Joe's teenage years. Any trouble Jamie gets himself mixed up in is diminutive in comparison to the things he did."
"Or the things you did. This may surprise you, but I've long regarded Hoss as my easiest child."
"I thought fathers weren't supposed to have favorites."
"Did I mention a favorite? I was merely pointing out varying degrees of difficulty. Hoss was by far the easiest. He was the only one of you who didn't give me any gray hair."
"If that's the logic governing your opinion, then maybe Jamie is destined to become your favorite now. At your age, there's nothing he could possibly do that would cause your hair to gray." Adam smiled as his father cast him an indignant glance.
"Enough about Jamie," Ben said gruffly. "Let's talk about you."
"Me?"
"Yes, you. Now that you are no longer sheriff, do you care to enlighten me on your plan?"
"For?"
"The future."
"The future."
"And your family."
"The future and my family. Popular topics these days, it would seem."
"Now that you no longer have a job, what do you plan to do with your time? How do you plan to sustain your family?"
Casting Ben a guarded glance, Adam tried to temper his annoyance. It wasn't enough that his father had annexed Peggy; he had to question his ability to look after the rest of his family, too. He had no right to pose the inquiry. To upset the precarious harmony they had found. They were to respect each other's autonomy and independence, after all; the questions Pa had dared voice were in direct opposition to maintaining their mutual goal.
"If you have something to say, I'd rather you say it outright," Adam said.
"I don't have anything to say."
"Yes, you do. You're worried about my ability to sustain my family."
"I'm not worried about that."
"Then why bother to ask the question you just did?"
The answer was obvious: Pa was worried, not just about Buckley becoming sheriff but about what his oldest son would do now that he wasn't. Would he leave the territory again, or would he stay? Which option was better? Which was worse? These were questions only the passing of time could truly answer.
"Adam, I just want to know your—"
"Plan. Yes, I know. What I can't seem to determine is why you're so worried about it. If I have problems, they aren't yours to fix."
Opening his mouth to reply, Ben said nothing and raised his hands exasperatedly instead. He shut his mouth, turned his attention to the schoolhouse in the distance, and seemed to take great care in appraising the empty yard. The bell had rung. Jamie—and assumedly Peggy—had been called inside with the rest of the students. How much longer would either of the teens tolerate attending or continue to pretend they were attending was anyone's guess. Oh, the danger of becoming the sole focus of Ben Cartwright's fury was enough to still implore Jamie to do what he was told, but Peggy remained immune to the prospect. Either she was not afraid of her surrogate grandfather, or the elder man had taken a much less authoritative approach with her than he had with any of his sons. The teenage girl's absence from the Virginia City schoolhouse had become downright habitual.
It wasn't a loss. Peggy was well beyond any of the subjects being taught there. She and Jamie were by far the oldest pupils who attended, and, at their respective ages, neither one of them belonged there. Adam supposed his reasoning for wanting Peggy to continue to attend was not unlike his father's justification for continuing to send Jamie. It was a way to keep an eye on them, preserving the illusion of supervision and the delusion of abounding parental influence. It was easy to think that a teenager was much younger than they actually were when you were still sending them to school. It was easy to believe that their problems would eternally remain straightforward and simple—the worriment of youths—when they refused to acknowledge that their current ages rendered them closer to adults than children. Not that Peggy's problems could have ever been described as simple. No, she had been through so much—too much, really—for such a thing to ever ring true. Her problems hadn't been easy when she was a little girl, and they wouldn't be easy now. Things might have been different had Adam not returned to Virginia City and had he not allowed Peggy to follow him here. Then maybe she would have gone to college per the original plan. She would be embracing the brightness of her future then, rather than hiding from it. She could have been spending her time meeting new people rather than waging wars with those who had no intention of allowing their understanding of her to change.
To folks in Virginia City, Peggy was still Frank and Laura Dayton's daughter, Will Cartwright's stepdaughter, and the child whom Adam Cartwright had stolen. Though the grim details of why eventually came out, the truth did nothing to calm the trading of old, seductive rumors. Sadly, even Adam realized it was simply a more tantalizing story if he had, in fact, taken the young girl without cause, if he were the villain and Laura, Peggy, and Will his victims. The truth about Will and his actions had come forth, of course, and though they were enough to save Adam from any legal repercussions, they hadn't been enough to save Peggy from becoming the primary focus of every gossip monger in town. The scandalous chatter hurt her. Adam knew this because it had once hurt him, too. Allowing her to live at the Ponderosa with his father and brothers was the only way he could protect her from the careless gossip. Oh, she would still hear a bit of it here and there, on the days she attended school or during her infrequent and sporadic occasions when she came to call on Lil or Eddie and the children, but the majority of it was unheeded and unheard. Still, Adam longed to find the right moment and the correct words to convince the girl to put some real space between herself and the territory. If he had had his way, then Peggy would not have returned to Virginia City at all. She wouldn't have had to share her secret diary, a collection of her deepest, darkest, most haunting memories, with a mass of folks who had no interest in understanding or honoring her pain. She would have been attending college in the Midwest for over a year now, her understanding of herself and the world around her growing rather than shrinking.
While it was difficult to believe now, Peggy was once excited to attend college—a rare opportunity for a young woman. Devoting herself completely to her studies in San Francisco, she had worked hard to become intelligent and well-rounded enough to be considered for acceptance, and she had been immensely proud the day the news finally came. She had wanted it so badly back then, and now she does not seem to want anything at all. With each passing day, Adam grew a little more fearful that the once-desired objective was being pushed further and further to the side in favor of more improvident and detrimental pursuits.
"I just want to know that you're going to be all right," Ben said.
Scoffing, Adam shook his head. Were any of them going to be all right? It didn't seem likely. Not with Peggy at the Ponderosa. Not with the tenseness that had taken up residence between he and Eddie. Not with the worried manner in which his father was appraising him.
"Financially, I am fine, if you really must know," Adam said, relinquishing the tiny bit of truth. "This may come as a great surprise to you, but I did quite well during my marshaling years. With a job like that, the pay was commensurate with the level of danger I was exposed to. And I did just fine when I took up Coffee's position. Not quite as well as I was doing before, but the money certainly wasn't nothing. As it currently stands, I am well equipped to care for my family for the time being. Which means I don't have to decide today what I intend to do next week."
"Which means you've bought yourself some time. Adam, it isn't the balance of your bank account that I'm worried about. It's the spare time you have at your disposal. In times like these, idle thoughts and hands are far from a man's friend."
"Times like…?" Adam stared at his father with slit eyes. "What is that supposed to mean?" he asked indigently. When Ben didn't respond, he shook his head. "Never mind; I don't want to know. Do you know what, Pa? Maybe I won't have any spare time. Maybe I intend to march myself over to the Silver Dollar Saloon right now, make a deal with Lil and Sam, and reinvent myself as a barkeep."
Ben was not impressed. "That's not funny."
"Who's laughing?"
"Certainly not me."
"Me either." Adam paused. "I can hold my own in a fight, you know," he added stubbornly, almost as an afterthought.
"I know."
"And I'm a damn good man to have around when the drunkards start throwing punches at each other or if anyone gets a little too belligerent and heavy-handed with a saloon gal."
"You are."
"It isn't like Sam or Lil would turn down such an offer."
"I'm sure they would not."
"In fact, I bet they'd be happy to have someone like me looking after—"
"Would you?"
"Would I what?"
"Would you be happy to be doing something like that?"
Adam shrugged. "There are worst things to do, I suppose."
"Better ones, too." Ben looked at the thoroughfare. "I know I'm not supposed to be offering you any unsolicited advice, and I know you probably wouldn't listen to it even if I did. Even so, I feel compelled to voice my opinion on this particular matter. Adam, you can go work at the Silver Dollar if that's what you really want to do, but, just so you know, I'd much rather you didn't."
"Because having a barkeep or a ruffian for a son would hurt your fine reputation."
Ben's response came slowly. "No."
"Why then?"
"I'd much rather you do something else."
"Like what?" Adam scoffed, not yet willing to relinquish his impudent tone. He was irritated by his father's lingering presence and the tone of the conversation. He wasn't in the mood to accept advice or be judged. "Blacksmithing? Or do you see me as more of a stable hand? Or, better yet, maybe I'll outfit a general store and give Old Man Cass a real run for his money. No, I know, I'll set up a hardware store."
"Adam," Ben sighed, growing weary of his son's flippant tone. "I am trying to have a serious conversation."
Planting his hands on his hips, Adam cast his father a disgruntled stare. "Then be serious. Quit dancing around what you really want to say and speak outright."
"Fine… Fine," Ben repeated and then hesitated, either rethinking this impending proclamation or deciding on the right way to phrase it. The words did not seem to come easily, and he looked slightly nervous when he finally opened his mouth and spoke. "Adam…son… What I would really like... what I think you ought to do is... come back."
"Back?"
"Back to work with your brothers and me. I think this is the perfect moment for you to finally reclaim your rightful place in the Ponderosa's business ventures."
Adam knew why his father had hesitated. "Oh, Pa," he said, his voice soft yet deep. He didn't know what else to say. He should have expected the suggestion to be forthcoming—maybe he should have thought of it himself—but he had overlooked it entirely. And his father, it seemed, was overlooking something, too.
After returning to Virginia City, Adam quickly gleaned that the passing years had allowed the grown Cartwright sons to find their permanent placement in the family operation. Hoss had complete control and supervision over the Ponderosa's timber operation, Joe their livestock enterprise, and Ben had maintained overseeing the business affairs. Eventually, his father would grow old and relinquish his own tasks, and by that time, Jamie would be ready and eager to step into that aspect of the business. Years ago, it had been implicitly accepted knowledge that Adam would eventually assume his father's responsibilities, but when he left, he had been one of three brothers, and he had returned to find himself one of four. Three was the perfect number of sons as far as the Cartwright family's varying business interests were concerned. Four was one too many.
"Just think about it," Ben urged. "Like you said, you don't need to decide today what you intend to do next week. You think about it, talk it over with Eddie, and let me know what the two of you decide."
Adam nodded, though he already knew what his answer would be. He didn't need to discuss the proposition with Eddie to know the idea would be rejected. He didn't need to think about the idea to know that it was the most terrible one he had heard in a long while. It was unseemly for a man of his age to hide in the shadow of his father's accomplishments. He had no interest in attaching himself to Pa's livelihood in order to sustain his own family. He would be a success or a failure, all on his own. The Ponderosa had been his father's dream and his mother's, too, or so he had been told. It was never meant to be his own. He knew that now; he thought his father had known it, too.
Still, he found himself silently mulling over the proposition later as he took a quiet and isolated ride, finally seeking some time alone to center himself and consider his options. Surveying the surrounding land, he expelled a hearty sigh and tried to ignore his budding unease. What had once been a purposefully chosen swath of Ponderosa property now felt a little too ill-picked. The expanse was as gregarious as it had been generous; running a span of nearly six hundred acres, it ran the entirety of the Running D's West property line. According to Ben Cartwright, this land and that of the now-defunct Dayton Ranch belonged to Adam and Peggy. They could be combined to form a sizable spread. If his father had had his way, Adam would have begun drafting plans and breaking ground on a new house for his young family long before now. But Adam had not. There were just some things in life a man was destined never to do; ill-fated goals always had a way of failing to come to fruition.
The land had changed significantly in the years he had been away. Ben had done a remarkable job cleaning up the skeletal remains of the house that had been left unfinished. Any evidence of the home Adam had been building for his once-future wife, Laura Dayton, had been eradicated. All that remained now were memories and haunting recollections of the uncompleted house and the period of time that followed its fateful erection. They were the ghosts that lingered behind, making way for sullen thoughts of all that had once been and then was not, giving birth to questions of all that could have been and would never be.
There had once been a time when this land held so much potential and hope. Years ago, when he and Laura Dayton had been engaged, Adam had surveyed the land, feeling nothing but gratitude and excitement. He was eager and willing to build something of his own. Firmly planting his roots within the rocky soil had been exhilarating and enticing. Finally, after all of the time he had remained standing loyally by his father's side, all the blood, sweat, and tears he relinquished, all of the long days and nights that had quickly transformed into weeks, months, and years during which he had worked tirelessly, ceaselessly toiling to transform the Ponderosa into the empire it had eventually become, his efforts had been recognized. The gift of the land was symbolic of Ben Cartwright's permission and acceptance that it was time for his oldest son to begin dreaming for himself.
But had owning this land really been his dream? Or had it just been a continuation of his father's rose-colored vision of what he wanted—needed—his family to look like and become? Adam wasn't sure. Years ago, being in possession of this land felt like an achievement. Having it at his disposal now felt a lot like failure.
If his father had not given him this land, if he himself had not chosen to build a house, would he have discovered Laura's fondness for Will? Would he have married her? And when she inevitably gave birth to his children, would they have brought their children into the world in the house she had once shared with Frank Dayton, or would they have lived in his father's home instead? Intrenched in the territory by his wife and children, would he have ever found the courage or desire to uproot them? Would he have found the courage and tenacity to leave his father's home and the financial stability the Ponderosa promised for unknown, unpredictable, and variable solitary success? Or with mouths to feed and hitched to a young woman who craved stability, would he have remained? And if he had stayed, would such a thing really have been all that bad?
There was once a time, so very long ago now, when Adam did not think so. There had been days when the world seemed to shift so suddenly out of his favor and uncertainty was nipping at his heels that he hadn't run from his father's home or dream. In fact, he had sought solace in them and in the man himself. A quiet evening in front of the Ponderosa's grandiose fireplace could be entrancing, stabilizing, and assuaging. Life had been comfortable and easy back then. Even in the worst of times, there was no darkness that could fall that was black enough to block out the light of Pa's enduring love; there was no distance away to which Adam could travel that he could not be shepherded back home by his father's steadfast presence, wisdom, and strength. But it wasn't like that now. Adam was older, a husband, and a father himself. The thought that he would look to Pa to shepherd him anywhere was as impermissible as it was unlikely. The passing years had taken their toll. They had hardened him, ravaged his understanding nature, rendered some of his reactions unsatisfactory and dull, and left his thoughts often a little too damning and sharp. He had grown accustomed to standing on his own two feet and alone; he wasn't willing to need people. Not now. Not anymore. If things had been different, maybe he would have been different, too. But they were not, and neither was he, and there was no peace to be found in this place, on this land, or by allowing himself to settle beneath his father's watchful eye once again. Pa could pretend all he wanted to; he could lie to himself, too. Adam had never been allowed to engage in such frivolities; he had never been any damn good at perceiving the world through his father's rose-colored lens. He couldn't go back any more than he could move forward.
Staring at the sizable boulder standing in the distance, he grew thoughtful and bitter. Stubborn and solid, the mass of rock had once been a neighboring cornerstone of the house he had begun to build for Laura and Peggy. Back then, he thought it would help shelter his future family from the strength of any incoming storm. Now it seemed to stand as a silent testament to all the hardship that had been endured. He appraised it sullenly, suddenly certain of what would have happened had it never belonged solely to him. He wouldn't have tried to build a house. He wouldn't have fallen and hurt his back. He wouldn't have spent months trying to regain his independence and mobility. His father wouldn't have become so protective over him; Adam would not have grown so frustrated with the man in return, and things might not have to change in the manner in which they did.
Without the land, the house, and the fall, he would have actually married Laura Dayton? Their union would have been wrought with challenges and misery. She would have taken to treating him harshly, and he would have turned into another Frank Dayton. Considering the fact that he had moved with his life, married, and had children with someone else, giving credence to the past served little purpose now. He had done what he had done, and things had become what they were. There was no point in questioning it now. Especially since Eddie questioned things enough for both of them. Though she never admitted doing so outright, Adam knew that she did. With the way things were, how could she not? How could he stand in front of his father and pretend that both the past and the truth were things that they were not?
After Will's death, he had avoided this land for a reason. After the birth of Eddie's last two children, he moved his young family off the Ponderosa into Virginia City and the house on Kay Street. Bringing his wife to the town and the house was a terrible thing to do; he had known that then. Even so, it wasn't nearly the mistake that keeping her the past Ponderosa would have been. He just couldn't do it. He couldn't find the desire or courage to build a future that might remind him of the past. He couldn't tolerate the notion that he might wake up one day and find himself living the very same life he had lived before. Restlessness, anger, and discontent had overwhelmed him before; they could overcome him again. The feelings that had driven him away from the territory could drive him away again. He worried about what could and would happen if such a thing were allowed. Foolishly, he had once believed that once Will had been dealt with, his problems would die along with him. They hadn't, though. Life was not easier without Will. In fact, in some ways, it was harder. Being a husband was difficult; being a father was sometimes more so. That was something Adam had come to know would never change, at least not for him. A traditional life did not come easily to him. Not after growing up the way that he did. Not with being a single man for as long as he was. Not with the path he had chosen or the one that had chosen him. In the same manner, Eddie longed for the extended spans of time when marshaling had taken him away; he longed for the trail; and he missed donning a badge. Being a lawman had fulfilled him in a way that nothing else ever could or would.
Even as a young child, he was quick to stand up for what he believed in. He was the first to step up and fight for the underdog, to come to the defense of the weak or improperly scorned. As much as it frightened his father to think about, no matter how much it was a truth the old man did not want to admit, seeing his oldest son become the sheriff of Virginia City made sense. The job suited Adam in a way that they both should have foreseen. It was the perfect compromise; he was both close to his family and brothers yet autonomous from them. His endeavors and authority were his own. It was everything he hadn't known he had wanted years ago when he began to struggle with his footing and place by his father's side. The position was an answer to the question he had never summoned the courage to ask: What could make him happy and satisfied, so he could build a future that would not have to lead him out of the territory and away from his family?
But he was no longer Virginia City's sheriff, and the land he stood on could never fulfill him now. He would never don a badge again, and, though the land would always belong to him, he would never take hold of it the way he once had. Taking backward steps, especially those he did not want to take, was not going to restore anything he had lost. It was only going to slowly destroy what little he had left to hold on to.
A gust of wind erupted around him, a strikingly cold breeze whose low, robust sonancy resonated around him. The noise he heard did not sound like wind; it sounded like moaning. Goosebumps pebbled his skin, an eerie feeling overcoming him as he turned around quickly, feeling so suddenly certain he would find someone standing behind him. No one was there, but that didn't ease his apprehension. It didn't calm the deep feeling of wrongness settling into the pit stomach, and it didn't stop his feet from moving beneath him as he swiftly closed the gap between him and Sport. He mounted the horse with little thought and directed the animal without consideration or deliberation. The wind around them hummed and moaned, inexplicably leading them where the moment was demanding they go.
When Sport eventually stopped, Adam dismounted and walked on. Clenching his arms as his sides as his feet moved beneath him, his eyes locked on the dilapidated house before him. He could not see beyond the boards that had been placed over the windows to protect the interior from interlopers and trespassers. He did not see, but rather felt someone looking back at him from behind those boards on the second-story window—the room where Laura had died, where he had once hidden his cousin, Will. There was someone, something, hiding itself up there. Adam was sure of that. His heart pounded in his chest, his breaths coming quick and shallow gasps. He couldn't summon the desire or courage to find out what it was.
A memory overcame him all at once, rising from the depths of his brain to further unsettle him.
"There's something very wrong with this house," Will had declared.
Standing just inside the doorway of the bedroom where he had discovered Laura Dayton's body years before, Adam had crossed his arms, appraised the dark and dingy surroundings, and then grunted. There was something very wrong with a lot of things; there was little point in drawing attention to this one. "Be grateful. At least I put a roof over your head."
"A haunted roof."
"Haunted."
"Yeah, haunted. You said yourself that the townsfolk believe this house is haunted. Well, let me be the first to tell you that those rumors are true. I think Laura's still here, knocking about. I hear her sometimes crying and moaning. She won't speak outright, though, at least not to me."
Adam shook his head to dismiss the claim. It refused to relinquish him so quickly. His own experience with the house, strange and distant, sprung a little too easily to mind. He had once heard moaning, a strange voice calling out his name, leading him up the stairs to where Laura's corpse lay, bludgeoned and decaying, in the very same room where his cousin now lived. As much as he had avoided thinking about it over the years, he harbored no doubts. Something had reached out and interacted with him, prompting him to take step after fateful step toward the path that would unravel his life.
"I don't believe in ghosts," he had proclaimed to Will, knowing the statement was a lie. He dreamed of Ed Payson and the bloodied prostitute, too. He knew the interactions with the former were real, and he prayed those with the latter were not.
"Well, lucky you," Will quipped bitterly. "If only we were all so perfect and fortunate." He glared up at Adam from his post on the floor. "Just because you don't believe in something, that doesn't mean it doesn't exist. Just because you refuse to face something, that doesn't mean it isn't true. I think Laura's still here. I hear her crying and moaning sometimes. She won't speak outright, though. At least, not to me. She whispers your name, though. She calls out for you in the middle of the night as though she's wanting you to show up and save her, or..." He paused, considering Adam thoughtfully. "Maybe she's waiting for you to show up so she can save you."
"Shut up, Will."
"It's funny, you know, how time can change everything and nothing at all. Take you, for instance. You used to be so brave, or at least, you always acted like you were. Now you're a coward. Each of your actions is predicated on fear. You cling to that badge of authority and hide behind duty, like it'll be enough to protect what's left of your family and save you in the end. But it won't. It can't. You are so shortsighted, craven, and weak. You may not believe in ghosts, but you are afraid. Brother, you are fucking terrified."
"I'm not afraid."
"Yes, you are. Why else would you be keeping me here? Putting off the inevitable, like it's something that can be helped. Why else would you have come back to Virginia City? What do you hope to find in a town that believes you are responsible for Laura's death?"
"Nothing."
"That's not true. You wouldn't have come back if it were. You would have stayed in San Francisco with your son or gone after your wife when she took off." Will grinned, an unsettling glimmer taking up residence in his dark eyes. "Oh, wait. No, I understand why you didn't do either of those things. Staying in San Francisco would have forced you to examine your faults and all the bad things that happened because you allowed them to. As for going after your wife, well, I suppose you never were the type to drop to your knees and beg someone to love you."
"Shut up, Will."
"It bothers you, doesn't it? To know that in your absence, I sought your wife out in San Francisco. It aggravates you to know that she and I had long conversations. It frightens you to think that she and I would have had any interactions at all. That's the real reason you've come here. Admit it. You left this town because you were running away, and now you've returned because it's the only way you can keep running."
"I'm not running away from anything."
"Man, you are running away from everything. Yes, sir," Will had said as he appraised their ramshackle surroundings. "You're a goddamn fool if you expect anything but bad to find you in this place. Of course, you know that. You didn't come here to avoid trouble; you came here to wait for it. Because you know that someone like you doesn't get to decide to walk away from the things he's done or the kind man he's really become. There's something terribly wrong with this house, Adam," he repeated. "And I do believe there is something terribly wrong with you, too."
The wind resurged, lifting a cloud of dust in the air that hung heavily in the space where Adam stood. Powerful and cold, the breeze was needful, demanding, and odd; it blew his hat off, pulled at his clothes, and threatened to overturn him. Body abuzz and beginning to tremble, Adam's feet remained rooted to the ground. His attention did not stray from the second-story window. Something was watching him from behind the boards. Something was reaching out, calling him back to this place. Oh, how he didn't want to come here to be reminded of the things Will had done inside that house or the things he had done himself. Nothing good would come from allowing oneself to recall them. There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on them, allowing the past to harm the present or future more than it already had. The walls of the house witnessed horrible things—the terrible crimes committed by Will and Adam. Disturbing, vile, fiendish malfeasances, the scars of which Peggy would carry for the rest of her life.
There was a thudding in the farmhouse, a muffled, ominous stomping echoing around the hollow insides. It sounded like someone was pacing, the soles of their shoes scraping against the worn floorboards. Eyes widening, Adam's heart pounded in his chest. How was it that he could hear the footfalls so clearly where he stood? How was it they were not lost among the whistling of the wind?
"It's a strange house," Adam once told his father, an unnerving memory to recall at this moment. "If you said you heard something, I'd believe you."
"You would."
"You wouldn't be the first to hear things."
"You've heard things?"
"Not lately."
And back then, Adam had not heard anything his father had seemed to, but he was hearing something right now. The pacing continued. Slow, heavy footsteps moved at a glacial pace, each seeming to thud thunderously, then echoing ceaselessly in Adam's brain. Was he the only one who could hear the noise? Or was it that he was the only one around to hear it?
Open your eyes.
The intense and familiar voice resounded in the hum of the wind. It was then that Adam knew that he shouldn't come here. He should have known better than to allow himself to be so easily led astray. This place wanted bad things for him. Just like he had once wanted bad things for Will.
Open them.
The footfalls ceased abruptly, and the wind calmed, the cloud of dust dropping from the air to form tiny piles on the ground that surrounded Adam's boots. He took an impulsive step forward, then two backward steps. Shaking his head, he blinked, trying to subvert his agitation, struggling to understand if the last few moments of his life had been real or imagined and what it meant for him either way. Unable to look at the house anymore, he turned, catching a quick glimpse of something in the distant landscape. It looked like a rider—a man on horseback who had stopped to watch him from afar. One of his brothers? Or maybe his father was coming to check up on the house—or him. Looking briefly at the ground, he cleared his throat to steady his nerves, readying himself for a conversation he didn't feel prepared to engage in. When he looked up again, the rider was gone.
Staring at the empty landscape, Adam was not certain anyone had ever been there at all.
TBC