His hand rubbed the bruise and lacerations on his arm. The pain pulled him forward through twenty years, and he felt the thundering concussion of his heartbeat in his ears.
Lance had crossed the yard and pulled open the nearby shed’s door before he had time to register that he was moving. He had never been in the shed before, but it took only moments for him to find what he was looking for.
The ax’s handle felt smooth and powerful in his hand as he threw the front door open and strode across the entry. The door came into view as he rounded the corner into the living room, and it was closed, as he’d hoped it would be. Without breaking his stride, Lance lifted the ax over his right shoulder, gripping it with two hands at its flared end, and swung it as hard as he could.
The ax blade met the door with a chunky crunch, as wood fibers flew in several directions. Lance didn’t pause to acknowledge the surprise he felt at the ax actually damaging the door. In the back of his mind, he had expected it to merely bounce off, repelled by an unseen force. He pulled back, yanking the blade from the door, and reloaded another swing, which sent more pieces of wood flying.
The fury he felt inside him only increased as he swung the ax, as if with every blow he were freeing the emotion fully from the place he kept it within. He felt it flow outward, unbidden from his core, a seething hatred so thick he feared it would clog his veins.
A full panel of the door broke free and flew into the room. Lance felt the ax almost slip free of his hands as the panel gave way. He pulled it back and struck again. This time, a deep cracking sound echoed throughout the living room and Lance felt the entire door sway inward. In a swift movement, he drew his foot back and kicked powerfully at the center of the black door. It exploded into the room in opposite directions, the left half banging against the wall, and the other spinning out of sight.
Lance’s breath came in ragged gasps. The ax hung from his fingertips. He waited, watching the dimness of the room for movement, for the bloom of white flesh rushing out to meet him. Nothing came. He listened, holding his breath for a few seconds at a time, before stepping through the threshold and into the room.
The ashen light from the rest of the house barely reached past the opening, and Lance paused again to let his eyes adjust. The chair sat just where it had the night before. He could make out a scattering of dark pellets on the floor, and realized it was the ricocheted buckshot. He walked to the center of the space and turned in a slow circle, gripping the ax in aching fingers.
“I’m here, you fuckers,” he growled.
Nothing appeared to take his challenge, and after a few moments of stark silence, he sensed that he was alone. He shifted his gaze to the chair. It sat there, squat and ugly, as if it was waiting. Daring him to come closer.
He stepped nearer, dropping to one knee before it. The faint light fell upon its surface, making it glow. He searched around its base, feeling the edges of the steel for any gap or seam that might indicate a panel or hidden space within. His hands ran up its sides to the armrests. He worked there for a moment, and then moved around to the rear.
No clue presented itself. Lance stood and studied the chair. He noticed the darkened wood beneath his feet and imagined what must have occurred in this room years before. Had screams echoed off the stone walls without an empathetic ear to hear their anguish? Had his father been the one to inflict the pain on whoever had sat here? How much blood had spilled here to stain the wood black and leave the faint odor of copper decades later?
Lance shook himself from the morbid contemplation and stared down at the floor. One person still lived that knew what had happened between these walls. One person held the key to unlock the past. One person knew the truth, and she hadn’t spoken a word in over thirty years.