Margaret woke with a scream.

The bed was empty.

Her hands were full of mud.

It was cold.

It was wet.

She looked at her palms.

The dirt was black.

It smelled of iron.

It smelled of blood.

She did not have time to think.

The door was open.

Wind rushed in.

The curtains snapped.

They hit her face.

She wiped the mud away.

The kitchen was dark.

But something glowed.

A red light.

It pulsed.

Like a heart.

It was on the table.

It was on the floor.

It was on the wall.

It was everywhere.

The house was breathing.

She could hear it.

A wet, heavy sound.

Inhalation.

Exhalation.

The walls expanded.

They contracted.

The floorboards groaned.

They snapped.

Margaret stood up.

Her legs were weak.

She gripped the counter.

The wood felt warm.

It felt soft.

Like flesh.

She pulled her hand back.

There was a dent.

A small red mark.

It bled.

She looked at the mark.

It grew.

It spread.

It became a vein.

It ran up the counter.

It ran up the wall.

It ran to the ceiling.

The house was sick.

The house was dying.

But it was not dead.

It was angry.

It wanted out.

It wanted her.

She knew who it was.

It was Arthur.

Her husband.

He was gone.

He was gone for three days.

The police said he was lost.

They searched the woods.

They searched the river.

They found nothing.

Only his car.

It was on the cliff.

It was empty.

No blood.

No body.

Just the car.

And the mud.

Black mud.

On the tires.

On the seats.

On the steering wheel.

Margaret had cleaned it.

She had scrubbed and scrubbed.

But the mud stayed.

It seeped into the fabric.

It soaked into the metal.

It would not leave.

Now it was in the house.

It was in the walls.

It was in the air.

It was in her lungs.

She coughed.

Black sputum hit the floor.

It hissed.

It smoked.

She looked at the door.

The hallway was long.

The shadows were deep.

Something moved.

A shape.

A form.

It was tall.

It was thin.

It was Arthur.

Or what was left of him.

He walked toward her.

His feet did not touch the ground.

He floated.

His face was a mask.

Clay.

Mud.

It covered his eyes.

It covered his mouth.

Only his hands were clear.

They were reaching for her.

His fingers were long.

They were black.

They were sharp.

He did not speak.

He did not need to.

The house spoke for him.

The floorboards creaked.

The pipes clanked.

The wind howled.

It was a voice.

It was a demand.

*Give me.*

*Give me.*

*Give me.*

Margaret backed away.

Her back hit the counter.

The wood was soft.

It was warm.

It was alive.

She felt a hand on her shoulder.

It was cold.

It was wet.

She turned.

It was not Arthur.

It was Thomas.

Her brother.

He stood in the doorway.

He held a knife.

It was large.

It was rusted.

It was bloody.

He looked at her.

His eyes were dead.

His face was calm.

He smiled.

It was a thin smile.

It was a cruel smile.

"Hello, Maggie," he said.

His voice was low.

It was rough.

It was like gravel.

"Did you miss me?"

She did not answer.

She could not breathe.

The mud in her lungs burned.

It spread.

It choked her.

Thomas stepped forward.

The house shuddered.

The walls groaned.

He walked toward her.

The floor bowed under his weight.

He was heavy.

He was strong.

He was wrong.

"I told you," he said.

"I told you not to dig."

Margaret remembered.

The garden.

The spot by the oak.

The earth was loose.

The air was sweet.

Arthur had gone there.

He had said he would find something.

He had said he would fix things.

He had said he would make it right.

Thomas had warned her.

*Don't go there.*

*Leave it be.*

*Let it sleep.*

But Margaret had not listened.

She had gone.

She had dug.

She had found the box.

It was gold.

It was heavy.

It was warm.

She had opened it.

She had seen the light.

She had seen the face.

She had screamed.

And Arthur had come.

And Arthur had touched it.

And Arthur had changed.

Now Thomas stood before her.

The knife was raised.

The blade was red.

The house screamed.

The walls burst.

Dirt poured out.

Black dirt.

Wet dirt.

It covered the floor.

It covered the table.

It covered Thomas.

It covered Margaret.

The mud was alive.

It crawled.

It clung.

It ate.

Thomas fell.

He sank.

The mud took him.

It pulled him down.

He struggled.

He kicked.

He screamed.

But the mud was faster.

It covered his head.

It covered his hands.

It covered his eyes.

He was gone.

Only his feet remained.

They twitched.

They kicked.

Then they stopped.

The house was quiet.

The mud settled.

It formed a shape.

A body.

It was Thomas.

But it was not Thomas.

It was a statue.

It was clay.

It was still.

Margaret looked at it.

She felt nothing.

No fear.

No anger.

No sadness.

Only cold.

Only wet.

Only mud.

She looked at her hands.

They were clean.

The mud was gone.

The blood was gone.

The dirt was gone.

She was dry.

She was clean.

She was free.

She looked at the door.

The hallway was empty.

The shadows were gone.

The light was soft.

It was gold.

It was warm.

It was beautiful.

She walked to the door.

Her feet did not touch the ground.

She floated.

She was light.

She was air.

She was gone.

The door opened.

The garden was there.

The oak tree was there.

The sky was blue.

The sun was bright.

She walked to the tree.

The earth was loose.

The air was sweet.

She knelt.

She dug.

The soil was black.

The soil was wet.

The soil was warm.

She dug.

She dug.

She dug.

She found the box.

It was gold.

It was heavy.

It was warm.

She opened it.

The light was blinding.

The face was there.

It was Arthur.

It was Thomas.

It was her.

It was them.

It was all of them.

It was the truth.

The truth was heavy.

The truth was warm.

The truth was alive.

She closed the box.

She put the lid on.

She pushed it down.

The earth closed over it.

The dirt covered it.

The garden was still.

The tree was still.

The sky was still.

Margaret stood up.

Her legs were strong.

Her hands were clean.

Her face was calm.

She looked at the house.

The house was gone.

Only the garden remained.

Only the tree remained.

Only the dirt remained.

She walked away.

She did not look back.

The mud was gone.

The blood was gone.

The fear was gone.

She was free.

But she was not alone.

She felt a hand on her shoulder.

It was cold.

It was wet.

It was mud.

She turned.

No one was there.

But the touch remained.

It was there.

It was always there.

It was in her skin.

It was in her bones.

It was in her blood.

It was in her breath.

She could not escape.

She could not run.

She could not hide.

It was part of her.

It was her part.

It was one.

It was whole.

It was true.

She looked at the sky.

The sun was setting.

The light was red.

The light was gold.

The light was dark.

She closed her eyes.

She felt the earth.

She felt the tree.

She felt the dirt.

She felt the life.

She felt the death.

She felt the end.

And she was at peace.

The mud was quiet.

The mud was still.

The mud was home.