Where the Devil Says Goodnight (Folk Lore 1)

Maybe not getting his dick sucked like, ever, but Emil would leave that thought to himself, since this doe was skittish.

“Exactly.” He smiled and picked up his cold coffee as he watched Adam back away to the main path. It brought Emil lots of satisfaction to see just how reluctant Adam’s footsteps were.

The rest of Emil’s day was slow, and he let himself enjoy the simple things. After a ride through the woods, he brushed Jinx and cleaned his hoofs, and then enjoyed a meal of fresh fruit and whipped cream before stepping into his house to pack for the weeklong trip. He’d never been away for so long since his grandfather’s death nine years back, but his excitement grew as he chose the best clothes to wear while clubbing. He wouldn’t disclose his evening plans to his employer, but he was meant to only stay in Cracow for a week, and he could survive on four hours of sleep for that long.

Excitement buzzed through his veins like warm oil, but when Zofia hadn’t arrived at the scheduled time, it dampened somewhat. He called her house to make sure she hadn’t taken a nap, but she didn’t pick up. He waited an extra ten minutes, then another ten. He would have gladly waited some more, but if he wanted to make it for the train, he couldn’t allow himself any more leeway. And if Zofia forgot he was leaving today, then maybe her next-door neighbors could point Emil to where she’d gone.

There was nothing to worry about—at least that was what he kept telling himself throughout the hurried jog along the dirt road, because dread was already clenching its claws around his heart. Had she changed her mind and had been too embarrassed to tell him? Had she gotten ill and her family hadn’t notified Emil? Whichever scenario popped into Emil’s head was disastrous and ended with him stuck in Dybukowo.

But whether he managed to leave town tonight or not, he needed to at least check up on her, because what if she’d broken her leg or fallen over and was unable to get up? With a cigarette fueling his fast-paced march, he traversed the fields between his home and the most populated area in the scattered village, passing through one of the neighbor’s yards to reach the main road.

His heart slowed, as did time, when he spotted a large crowd of people congregated around a ditch close to Zofia’s home. Breathless, he looked up, alarmed by the concert of cawing, and when he saw a tall tree that had more crows than leaves in its crown, his pulse galloped as if he’d been given an adrenaline injection straight to the heart.

Emil walked faster and then ran to the rhythmic thud in his ears. A woman rushed out of her house, screaming something Emil couldn’t hear through the buzz in his head. She dove into the crowd of onlookers and dragged her two small children away, tugging them back to their home. Another woman declared someone should call the police, but Emil could barely understand even the loudest of their voices, as if he were behind a glass wall.

A shiny Range Rover drove past Emil and stopped in the middle of the road. It belonged to Radek’s dad, but before Mr. Nowak managed to step out of the vehicle, Emil reached the gathering and stood still, wishing he’d just stayed home after all.

Zofia’s twisted body rested in the shallow water. Her face had been ripped to pieces, one eye a bloody hole, red marks of torn flesh on her bared arms.

“They did that!” cried one of the children Emil had noticed earlier. His gaze followed its index finger all the way to the tree above. To the crows that for once hadn’t been waiting for him in the morning. Which meant they must have been here.

Nausea rose in Emil’s throat, cold like icy syrup that tasted of bile, but no matter how mutilated Zofia was, she could still be alive, so he jumped into the ditch and touched her hand.

But no. It was cold. As if she’d been here for hours, a grim feast for the birds.

His breath stopped as he took in the small holes poked in her skin, the torn flesh of her mouth. She was dead.

She’d been the one person to reach out a helping hand to him, and now she was dead.

“Killers often return to the place of their crime,” came as a whisper, and Emil looked up, his throat thick with a scream he tried to hold back. The shallow water had soaked into his boots and encased his feet with its icy grip. He only realized the words were meant for him when he met the gaze of one of the women.

“Well? Aren’t those your birds?” she asked, with panic settling in her voice despite the way she stood unflinchingly above the ditch.