The official investigation into the events of 14 April 2015, transcripts from testimonies of witnesses.
Mr Carrington: My alarm went off at 6:30am, I woke up but I was still tired so I didn’t get out of bed straight away. I was having a dream about my wife, she was killed in a car accident two years ago. But in my dream we were falling asleep beside each other and she was holding my hand.
Investigator: Can you tell me about the accident?
Mr Carrington: I don’t know, I wasn’t in the car with her. All I know is that she had taken the car and was driving up the mountain. I don’t know why. The police called me in the morning and said the car had flipped and that a clean break of the neck had killed her.
Investigator: Yes, the file says she was alone in the car. Were you at home that evening?
Mr Carrington: Yes, I was. I don’t understand what this has to do with anything? My wife was killed in a car accident twenty years ago, that’s in your file. I want to know why there was a bleeding hand in my bed.
Investigator: I understand that this is frustrating, but this is such an unusual case, we aren’t entirely sure where to start investigating.
Sore foot, sore foot. Sore foot sore foot sore foot. Sore feet sore foot sore feet sore foot. Sore foot, sore foot, sore foot, sore foot.
The moon was ripe and the night was solid. A woman with limbs as pale as the moon itself kneeled in the dirt, her patent cherry heels discarded and the manic look of a junky cast over her exquisitely painted face. Warm wet dirt clung under her nails, her half-moon manicure chipping. She scoops handfuls of dirt and tosses them beside her, soon she is covered from her elegant hands to her elbows in the rich earth. Hours pass before her hungry hands finally met their goal. She smoothed the remaining dirt off of the wooden box and pried it open. Labouring, she lowers herself in and lies on her back, the soles of her bare feet up against the cool wood. She faced the sky as the sun was beginning to rise, her black silk dress soiled, makeup smeared and dirt on her face. She closed her weary eyes and the lid slammed shut.
“It was my task to, with great care and effort, delicately dig up the past. I would unearth ruins, dust off bones and treasures and put together history like a jigsaw puzzle. That Tuesday I began with a pickaxe, but I wasn’t just hacking away, you have to be really precise, it takes a careful hand.
This was at the beginning of the day, maybe at nine in the morning, perhaps a little earlier, I like to get started early. I kept picking away until midday when the sun was unbearable, that was when I had lunch. I took a little over an hour, applied more sunscreen because you can’t be too careful, and started up again.
I wasn’t really expecting to find anything in the area, I certainly didn’t know it was a burial ground. If I had known I would have approached it differently. You can imagine my surprise when I hit a wooden coffin, a really simple one. It was so intact, which was very unusual given the age of the corpse inside. Of course I didn’t go opening it up then and there, especially given the sturdy nails, I made a few calls and later it was opened to reveal the decayed body of a woman. It was most peculiar that she was missing her left hand.”
Every Tuesday morning around 8:30am he comes in and orders the same thing, a latte to takeaway. He seems like a pretty straightforward kind of guy, wears a suit, says thank you, and doesn’t like to talk much. This Tuesday was the same as always, he came in during our morning rush. He was sitting at the table in the corner waiting when I noticed that he had placed a bloody hand across from him. Of course I was horrified, but I did notice a gold wedding band and a pristine red half-moon manicure. That’s when we called the police.
– Katelyn Goyen