Chapter 2 - GO ROT IN THAT CABIN
Rachel threw the first suitcase into the mud.
Eulalia stood frozen on the porch.
“Stop.”
Rachel grabbed the second.
“You should’ve left after the funeral.”
“It was yesterday.”
“Exactly.”
Eulalia clutched Neftali’s framed photograph against her chest.
Rachel stared at it.
Then ripped it from Eulalia’s hands.
Eulalia gasped.
“That’s my son!”
Rachel threw the frame down.
“He’s dead. Get out.”
The glass cracked against the porch stone.
Eulalia bent for it.
Rachel blocked the doorway.
“This is my house now.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I have rights here.”
“Had.”
Eulalia tried to step inside.
Rachel shoved her backward.
Not hard enough to knock her down.
Enough to humiliate.
Then pointed toward the mountains.
“Go rot in that cabin!”
Eulalia’s face collapsed.
“You buried my only child yesterday!”
Rachel slammed the door.
That was it.
No key.
No coat beyond the cardigan Eulalia wore.
No chance to retrieve Neftali’s childhood boxes.
She stood in the mud for nearly a minute.
Then picked up the photograph.
The cracked glass cut? no gore. Avoid. She carefully removed the damaged frame.
She put the photograph in her purse.
Loaded the suitcases into an old station wagon.
Drove toward the mountains.
The cabin sat twelve miles past the nearest paved road.
Neftali used it during hunting season.
His father had built it.
Eulalia had not slept there in almost fifteen years.
Inside:
dust,
cold fireplace,
old blankets,
a broken lamp,
and the smell of wet wood.
She dragged one suitcase across the floor.
A board cracked beneath her foot.
She stumbled.
Then heard a metallic clang below.
Her crying stopped.
Eulalia knelt.
Pulled at the damaged board.
Beneath it:
a steel box.
Heavy.
Sealed.
Her hands began shaking.
“Neftali?”
She dragged it out.
Opened the latches.
Inside:
Neftali’s phone.
His wedding ring.
And a sealed envelope.
EULALIA.
Her name.
She stared.
Why would his wedding ring be here?
Rachel had told everyone it was buried with him.
Then the phone screen lit.
Battery nearly dead.
A video opened automatically.
Neftali appeared.
Alive.
Terrified.
“Mom… if they told you I’m dead—”
The recording glitched.
Eulalia grabbed the phone.
“Neftali?!”
The video returned.
One second.
“DON’T TRUST THE COFFIN.”
Then black.
May you like
Eulalia sat on the rotten cabin floor.
For the first time since the funeral, grief gave way to fear.
