Tiny motes of sawdust floated around in the stale, heavy air.The lines of light bleeding out of the overhead lamps were outlined by the grit, making them look like solid things.
Save for a small workbench in the center of the garage, every inch of it was full of carvings.They all had the same subject, the same muse: a young woman with a pleasant, round face and long, curly hair.The carvings’ expressions were all the same, their eyes closed and peaceable, mouth turned up into a calm smile.
Some were small enough to fit into the palm of Blake’s hand, laid in concentric circles, altar-like before the taller, larger-than-life carvings.Some were more cartoonish in appearance, caricatures or suggestions of a person.Some were so lifelike—had such an upsetting amount of detail—that Blake feared that they could open their eyes and start screaming at any second.It was enough to make tears of discomfort prickle at the corners of his eyes.
Blake immediately knew what they were.
Voice hoarse, Celeste croaked out a little: “Oh.”
There was a softclickfrom nearby and the garage opened, afternoon light spilling into and illuminating the rest of the space.Older, cruder attempts at carvings were revealed, crammed farther back into the garage.As his heart squeezed with acidic terror, Blake took a step closer to the open door.
“My Laurel…” Paul breathed, reaching up under his glasses and scrubbing at his face in exhaustion.“A few years after we moved up here, our daughter got sick.I feel like we took her to every doctor in the state—some even out of state—but no matter how hard they tried, no one could help her.”
He turned to his workbench, reaching out and grabbing one of the tiny carvings to cradle it in his greedy hands.He held it close to his face as he spoke.“It was a rare heart condition.A birth defect.”
He set the figure aside.“She died nearly twenty years ago.”
“I’m so sorry about your daughter Laurel,” Marin spoke up, approaching Paul with hesitant steps.“I can’t imagine the kind of grief you went through, losing a child.”
“Daughter?”Paul sneered, looking repulsed by the suggestion.His gaze fell on Marin with a sharp jerk of his head.“No…Morganwas the name of my daughter.I couldn’t care less about Mor—these carvings are ofmy wife.Laurel wasmy wife.”
The look of revulsion that curdled Marin’s face was instantaneous, his eyes lighting up with a dark, frightened loathing.
Blake almost recoiled.The contempt and near disgust with which Paul had spoken about his daughter was cruel atbest.But for him to have lost achildand then slake this endless amount of devotion and hours into creating effigies of hiswifeinstead… it showed an amount of inhuman disregard that Blake had never before witnessed.His lunch began to roll back up his gullet like a soft stone.
On the other side of the garage, Celeste had a hand pressed over their mouth, looking supremely ill at ease with an arm folded over their stomach.
Paul began to mutter to himself.Blake couldn’t make out what he was saying until he stepped up closer to him to join Marin’s side.
“—inevitable, really, what happened to the kid.No one could have done anything to help.No one could have known.Now Laurel.God, what a saint—”
He whipped around without warning, Blake almost throwing a trembling hand out to defend Marin, pulse beating a tattoo against his chest.Paul stalked by them as if they weren’t there, approaching one of the larger carvings.He reached out to caress its cheek, stroking it several times with the back of his hand.When he pulled away, his skin was covered in splinters.
“What a saint,” he repeated.“She was such a good mom.Such a good woman.The best thing that ever happened to me, Laurel was.She blamed herself for Morgan’s death.Thought it was something she had done to cause it, because she’d been the one to carry her, to make her.
“It weighed on her heavily.”Paul drooped, reaching out to hold the carving’s hand.The disgust at the gesture made Blake’s hair stand on end.“Some days she couldn’t get out of bed.I told her that we did everything we could to save Morgan, that she had to go on living.But for Laurel it wasn’t enough.One day—the fifth of September, 2005—I had to go out to the store to check up on something.I never should have gone.Shouldn’t have left her in that state.Should’ve known better.”
Paul’s head hung between his shoulders.“When I got home later that day, she was gone.”
The garage was silent.Blake watched as Paul squeezed and stroked the carving’s hand, like she was a real, breathing person in need of comfort.
Blake felt Marin’s hand in his grip, soft and warm and alive.
“I didn’t know what to do without her,” Paul choked out in a sob.“I didn’t know—don’tknow—how to be.My buddies—they’re real good guys—they got me to take some art classes down in Folsom.I mostly carved bears at first.I sold them at little craft fairs around here.But… I wanted to do something to honor Laurel.Honor her memory and her… her…”
Paul fell back into low, frantic susurrations, returning to his workbench.He braced himself on it with both arms, face downcast and unreadable, shaking it slowly.
Blake was trembling, too, his hand fluttering in Marin’s grip, frigid with sweat despite the immobile summer heat.
“There’s too much,” Paul said, and for a moment there was some sort of clarity to his words, some kind of guidance.“I can never put into words what she was to me as a person,whoshe was as a person.I never thought I would be able to express it in art, but it was healing to try.And that’s when… I made her again.”
Paul reached up, pointing to the dark orchard in front of the house with a crooked, splintered finger.“A storm knocked down one of the apple trees, about ten years back.I’d always wanted to carve with apple wood, and Laurel — well, she loved it up here so much it seemed… right.Like some sorta divine providence had led me to my canvas, had shown me exactly what I needed to bring my Laurel back.”
Paul lowered his hand and reached into his pocket, drawing out an old leather wallet.From between the card slots he extracted a small portrait, turning the image towards his three guests.
Marin was the first to step forward, releasing Blake’s trembling hand with a comforting squeeze.Blake didn’t want to let him go, didn’t want to release him into grasping range of whatever strange creature had manifested before them.But despite his fear, Blake released Marin’s hand, his fingertips lingering on his pulse.
Marin reached out, cupping the image between his fingers.
