“No, he hasn’t left his room. He’s pretty much locked himself in there for the last couple days.” Terry could hear his mom talking on the phone in the living room. “It’s like the accident all over again.” She talked on the phone with Grandpa every morning since Gramma died.

  He laid under the covers that shielded him from the world. The dark clouds from outside the window seemed to suck the color from his room. There was a smell of burning eggs; his mom could never cook while talking on the phone.

  Two days had already passed since Mister Clines had suddenly died. It was now the day of the funeral. Terry’s mom was worried and reluctant to let him go, but she eventually came to believe it would be a good idea to let him pay his respect to the man he spent every other afternoon talking with. In an hour he’d throw on some nice black clothes. In an hour he would start walking to the cemetery. In an hour he’d say goodbye.

  “No, I haven’t been keeping up with the news. Maybe it’s a good thing he’s locked in his room.” She said from the kitchen. She sighed. “Anyways, I gotta go, Dad. Love you.”

  Shortly after, there was an audible closing and locking of the front door. Terry rolled over and stared at the clock on his bedside table. His body didn’t want to move. Eventually, he rolled himself off the bed with a thud, stood up, and sluggishly began to get ready.

  He pulled a black dress shirt and pants from his closet. They hadn’t been worn in a year and a half, since the last funeral. They were tight in some places and loose in others. It would have to do. He pulled the crystal from the drawer he had shoved it in and slid it into his pocket.

  Terry locked the door behind him when he left.

  Mister Clines wasn’t the most social man. His funeral had a small turn-up. It was held in the town’s graveyard where the trees never grew leaves and fog accumulated in the early morning. The air smelled of upturned soil and mold.

  Parked along the road outside of the gate was a Volkswagen van with numerous decals involving the search for Bigfoot. The man who stepped out looked like a retired sasquatch, and his wife was dressed in beads and a black sundress. A few students from the university in the city were there. The local sheriff sat alone in one of the black aluminum chairs that were scattered around for seating. There was a man with a briefcase, a woman who sobbed continuously throughout the service, and an older fellow who wore a silver monocle and kept a bowie knife strapped to his belt. Terry couldn’t tell whether they were relatives, business partners, or close friends.

  The obituary talked about how he served in the marines, had a Masters's in both Linguistics and Cultural Anthropology, had been a professor at a university, traveled until he settled down back in his hometown of Trident Grove, and eventually met his end.

  The local sheriff stepped up to the makeshift podium and began his speech.

  The speech was short and simple. The way Leland Clines would have liked it. Sheriff Johanson talked about the childhood they shared, the time they spent in the military, and the good times they spent with each other throughout their lives.

  Terry kept his eyes pointed down towards the dying grass for most of the service. Occasionally, he’d turn and look at the old tombstones nearby. Some were falling to pieces, and others were fresh with flowers and mementos. When he listened to the service, he realized there wasn’t a lot he knew about Mister Clines.

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  Each person said their goodbyes to the corpse. When Terry walked up, he stared at the pale and lifeless face of the man who died in front of him. His hands were crossed over his chest, and his eyes were closed.

  Every person set an object on the casket before it was lowered.

  Terry reached into his pocket. Mister Clines had asked him for help right before he died. Terry felt a pang of hollow guilt tearing in his chest. In a final attempt to make amends for his mistake, he placed the crystal onto the coffin. There was a quiet ringing sound. Terry popped his ears and it went away. Nobody else seemed to notice the noise.

  They set a United States flag on his casket and shots were fired in tribute as Leland’s body was set to venture six feet deep. They shoveled the dirt back in and buried him with the grubs, the worms, and the parasites. It began to sprinkle and the funeral attendants filed out like ants.

  Terry began walking back through the graveyard. The grass was soggy from the lack of sun and the rain that continued to come and go in the last few days. Each step felt like the graveyard was trying to drag him in with the dead. He continued to walk until a tombstone caught his eye. It was a reminder that everything was crap. He stood and stared over it. There was a single rose sitting on the grave. He felt himself choke up a little bit but swallowed it down.

  “Fuck you, Gramma.” He muttered.

  Terry thought about how his life seemed to go downhill when she died as if the curses she had spouted at him had become real. His mom had been comparing the incident with Mister Clines and Gramma dying to be the same, but they weren’t.

  Footsteps approached, and Terry turned to see the sheriff.

  “Hey, young’n.” The man held his hat in both of his hands. “You doin’ alright?”

  Terry cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  He could feel the sheriff looking over him, examining to see that he wasn’t alright.

  Johanson eyeballed him. “Well, I’d like to talk to ya about what happened whenever you’re ready. Also, I have a few things you might want to see.”

  Terry showed no interest.

  “You willing to come by the station sometime around this evening?” Johanson asked.

  After a moment, Terry reluctantly agreed.

  The two went separate ways, and Terry continued on his walk home.

  Packers went through the apartment, starting from the bedroom, and put things into boxes and bags to be taken to Clines’ remaining family.

  Johanson knocked on the open door, half expecting Clines to yell at him to come in. That didn’t happen. Instead, a bulky Hispanic man peeked around the corner.

  “Yessir?”

  “Hey, I was friends with Leland. I was hoping I could grab a few things.”

  The man didn’t know what to say, he was just a mover. So he said, “Sure, go for it, I guess.”

  Sheriff Johanson walked in, up to the desk, where all the notes, The Book of The Natives, and the map were. He stacked it all together.

  “Guy must’ve been a bit crazy. With all the conspiracy-looking maps, and stuff.” One of the movers said. The other mover hushed him by saying the previous resident's friend was in the apartment.

  The sheriff chuckled at the thought. Then, went on his way with what he needed under his arm, protected from the rain. He only had until the night to figure out any of the notes.

  The weather was cold and unforgiving with a storm that had slowly formed over the whole town. Another tremor happened earlier that day, and people went out into the rain to fix the things that fell. Only a few began to question what was going on.

  It was the weekend, and Terry stayed inside from the rain after the funeral. Nothing was making sense to him. He didn’t want to see Cadence that night, and explain to her he put the crystal in Clines’ grave, or find out that she planned to kill Mister Clines the whole time. He hated her if that was her intention. And he thought about the mermaid, and the thing that came out of the fountain and killed Clines, and the little girl who cried by the old tree, and the tremors, and the storm. But, most of all, he wondered how much of it was his fault. He bundled himself in covers on the couch.