Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Can he see me? No. I know the way the sun is angled that the reflection protects me from the eyes of others. I know the times of the day I’m safe from view. Years and years have made me an expert. Papa Rich can’t see me but no doubt knows I’m watching. He knows I can see. I can hear. I will learn from this man’s mistakes. Another lesson of what happens to those who break the rules.
“The story of the ghost girl in the school window is fascinating,” the rule breaker says as he snaps away. “I want to make sure I really get the right images to go with it.” He doesn’t stop taking pictures. “Have you ever seen the ghost while working here? I’d really like to interview you if you have.”
“There’s no trespassing up here,” Papa Rich repeats.
The rule breaker doesn’t look away from the schoolhouse. He should. He really should.
Like so many times before, Papa Rich pulls a thick wooden mallet from his knapsack he carries every day and hits the rule breaker on the back of the head. The sickening crack echoes up the path and stabs at my heart.
Yes, the rule breaker is bigger. Yes, he could run faster. But just like the others, he falls to the ground. The lens of his fancy camera shatters on the desert dirt and scatters beneath the branches of the sagebrush.
I turn away from the window then and finally pet Pine Cone under her chin. I don’t need to see what comes next. I know Papa Rich will drag his limp body to the acid pits in the old mill building.
Another tragic accident.
Another careless tourist who didn’t pay attention to the danger signs and falls to his death in the pits. It’s not like anyone will find the rule breaker. The acid pits will sizzle his flesh and bone until nothing is left.
The fly in the honey will be rectified. Contamination will be cleansed.
2
Ember
I hate the sound of the door opening and shutting after a trespasser is dealt with. Papa Rich is always in such a foul mood. Without fail, he’ll lecture me and cite the Bible as if I am the one who has committed the crime. I’ll have no choice but to stare on with wide eyes, nodding on occasion, and give every visual cue I possibly can that I am receptive of his schooling and learning about the difference between good and evil.
Yes, Papa Rich.
You’re right, Papa Rich.
He deserved to pay for his crimes, Papa Rich.
You’re just acting as the hand of God, Papa Rich. I’ll pray for his soul.
But the sounds coming from the front of the schoolhouse sound different. So different, that I consider hiding as I was taught to do if anyone other than Papa Rich were to ever enter the building.
“Ember,” Papa Rich calls out. “Ember, get out here.”
I pad barefoot against the cool wood floor cautiously. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. I can feel it. I can hear it in the way he says my name, winded.
I peer around the wall and freeze in my tracks.
Papa Rich has hold of the rule breaker underneath his arms. He’s dragging him inside the door.
No acid pits.
No discarding of the body as if it were trash.
The rule breaker lay limp, unconscious and is awkwardly being yanked with all the force Papa Rich can muster. The stranger’s dusty from being dragged along the dirt path, and there’s a matted patch of blood on the back of his head from where he was hit.
I can’t tell if the man is alive or dead.
Am I supposed to be a hand of God today? I don’t want to.
I swallow the bile down.
Papa Rich looks up, his blue eyes hold me frozen as he motions me towards him. His greasy hair sticks to his temples as sweat beads down his sun-weathered face.
I watch a small grin curl his lips as he says, “Give me a hand, Ember. Don’t just stand there.”
I can see the man is too big for Papa Rich. I’m guessing that is why Papa Rich didn’t just drag him to the old mill himself. Maybe it was too far. But I don’t want to go to the acid pits. I had been there before and begged Papa Rich to never make me do it again. He said if I was a good girl, I wouldn’t have to. I was a good girl, but my heart stops in fear that Papa Rich blames me for this man crossing the trespassing line.
His nostrils flare, and the cords in his neck strain. I recognize his hardened emotions and am scared. “Pick up his feet. Help me carry him to the hatch.”
His command ricochets through my body. Although having a direct order makes it easy for me to comply. I take hold of the man’s ankles and lift while I stumble and shuffle my feet as Papa Rich walks backwards.