Those We Bury Back

By Tom Leveen

The house remembers him. And wants his son.

Braden's got a wonderful wife, darling three-year-old son, nominal success as a novelist — and no contact with his parents for years, with very good reason.

Then a box of his books is accidentally—and mysteriously—delivered to his childhood home. Against his own best judgment, Braden swings by the old place with his son, Josiah, to pick up the box. In and out, super fast, no big deal.

The house has other ideas.

Infected by the traumas inflicted by his parents, the house traps Braden and Josiah with its lone, erstwhile occupant. It turns Braden's long buried memories into corporeal horrors threatening his fragile, still-recovering psyche and the childhood of his only son. Braden must quickly uncover what exactly the house wants from him--

Or if it is, in fact, the house that's haunted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: FTJ Creative LLC
• Release date: Dec 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393440697

Tom Leveen

Tom Leveen is the author of Random, Sick, manicpixiedreamgirl, Party, Zero (a YALSA Best Book of 2013), Shackled, and Hellworld. A frequent speaker at schools and conferences, Tom was previously the artistic director and cofounder of an all-ages, nonprofit visual and performing venue in Scottsdale, Arizona. He is an Arizona native, where he lives with his wife and young son.

Book preview

ONE

THE HOUSE REMEMBERED him.

Pulling up alongside the splintered red wooden fence surrounding the front yard, Braden Clark felt it. Even before he’d entered the neighborhood, he could feel the house awakening. Knowing. Smelling him in the vicinity.

Braden sensed its memory waking, shaking off the dust of a two-decade slumber, probing for him, seeking him out. And it found him. Its incorporeal tentacles reached for and enveloped him whole. They penetrated the interior of the truck, sniffing for him. The mechanical muscle of the new-model-year Toyota Tundra provided him and his son no more protection than a hospital gown. It was as if in the twenty years since he’d been here, his childhood home had accumulated more filth and rot and smell and rancidity, enough to make it live. Enough to make it breathe. Enough to make its fetid vapors tangible.

Three-year-old Josiah Clark didn’t seem to notice anything unsettling. Braden nearly offered a silent prayer of gratitude for that small mercy.

Whose house this? the toddler wanted to know from his car seat in the back.

It’s my old house. Braden sat still in the cab, clutching the wheel, his knuckles tight knobs pressing the tendons into white strips. Scar tissue across them flexed as if threatening to snap open and bleed anew.

You live there? Josiah asked, frowning.

Braden wasn’t sure if Joze meant to use the present-tense or not. Preschoolers hadn’t quite mastered tense.

Doesn’t matter, Braden thought. The truth is what matters, and the truth is I do not live here.

This excursion didn’t make any sense to Josiah, Braden guessed. They lived together with Mommy in a new house, so this one clearly could not be where Daddy lived.

I don’t live here anymore, I just used to, Braden answered his son.

Shouldn’t have brought him, Braden thought. Should have found someone to stay with him at home, or taken him to Grandma’s, even if it was just for ten or twenty minutes so I could get this stupid thing over and done with.

Except sitting there, staring at the house with its tan, peeling face and frowning blank window eyes, he knew he’d brought his son on purpose. Not as a sacrifice, though once the word flashed in his head he had trouble dismissing it; no, not for that. More as a talisman. As a relic, an emotional splinter of the True Cross from his abandoned faith. Josiah would unwittingly protect him. His sheer simple love would ward off any panic, Braden believed. That the presence of a toddler would calm his nerves made for a bitter pill to swallow, but Braden didn’t mind. At the moment, he didn’t give one tiny shit that he was using Josiah as an emotional crutch.

Of course, the decision to bring him had been made earlier, when not parked in front of the old house. In the clean light of the Phoenix day, under the glimmering cabinets of their home—their real home as a family—it had just made logistical sense. His wife, Ashley, worked late on Fridays, and he usually picked Joze up from preschool and after-care at six.

Bring the kid along, no big deal. In and out in five minutes, no sweat. Then take him out for ice cream! Get a treat, you’ll both deserve it.

Then you never have to think about that goddamned house ever again.

Yes, it had been easy to think that way yesterday. This morning, even.

Now, parked here, he found it harder to justify having brought Josiah along.

Now what he wanted to do was throw the stick into reverse and say the hell with this.

What doing, Daddy?

His son’s voice startled him. Braden released the wheel and sat back, realizing his hands had cramped.

Hmm? Oh. Nothing, Joze. Nothing. Just thinking.

You o-tay, Daddy?

Yeah, Braden lied.

Now the choice loomed before him like a tangible pendulum. No middle ground, only the two extremes:

Leave his boy in the car, which you were never supposed to do; or bring him inside? Into the lair of demon memories?

He’d let fate choose. Fate seemed to have chosen his path this far, anyway, so what the hell.

Josiah? Do you want to come inside or wait in the car?

It would, after all, only be for a second. A minute, a full minute at most. Josiah wouldn’t roast in the car. Even if he somehow got locked inside, which he wouldn’t, kids and pets didn’t die in cars in November. June, yes. July, August, absolutely. Not fall, not November, not a week past Halloween, they didn’t.

Come inside, Josiah proclaimed.

And Braden had known it. Of course he wanted to go inside, Josiah always wanted to go inside. Inside was not here, the car, the old, the familiar. Inside was always new, exciting. Of course he’d want to go in.

Okay, Braden said. But just in and out. Real fast. All right?

O-tay, Daddy.

But Braden didn’t move.

The woman who bought the house hadn’t changed anything. Not one thing. Who does that? he wondered. The ranch-style house featured a deep front yard covered in tan gravel. From east to west: two kitchen windows looked out over an unadorned concrete porch. On the opposite side of the front door, one small window in the master bathroom and one larger window in the master bedroom glared like transparent eyes, shaded with off-white aluminum awnings. The awnings reminded Braden of a smoker’s teeth.

When he and Ashley bought their place, it had already been close to a dream home, close being the operative word. The home had needed some interior paint changes—one particular mustard-yellow accent wall drove them both crazy—and the back yard resembled a blank, brown slate. Over time, though, they’d painted inside, built a red brick patio in the back, and installed new double-pane windows throughout. Braden still wanted to turn the back yard into a sort of park for himself and Josiah, with plenty of trees and lush grass.

This woman had done nothing to the Clark’s former house. The same dust-colored exterior paint Braden had put on himself, some twenty-two years ago, still clung stubbornly to the wood slats. The rotted red wooden split rail fence stood in place, useless for anything other than a perfunctory property demarcation. The trees and bushes had either continued growing, overwhelming the roof and long front yard, or else died in place, shedding tinder-brown needles and leaves. The monster acacia rooted beside the driveway had grown immense, nearly obscuring the concrete front porch running from the carport to the front door.

Braden blew breath out between his teeth with a hiss.

What doing, Daddy? Josiah asked again. He frequently asked many things again.

Sorry, Joze. Nothing. Just thinking. You ready to go?

Josiah cheered, Yaaaay!

And Braden thought, He has no idea what happened here. And that’s a good thing. Dear God, I love you, kid.

He checked his phone; 6:30 on the nose. Dumping the phone into the center console, Braden opened his door. Cold wind blew in, whipping the cuffs of his jeans with a sound like startled birds.

And clouds slid overhead, heading west to obscure the sun.

TWO

BRADEN CLARK’S FIRST novel had not been a success, not by any conventional measure. Conventional measures didn’t interest him, though. One doesn’t set out to write a Shakespearean mystery thriller with hopes of international acclaim. Or if one does, one doesn’t admit it publicly. He’d been thrilled to have been offered a ten thousand dollar advance. Likewise, he’d been thrilled—and a little terrified—to take the small stage at his local independent bookshop the day the book released and talk about it, and answer questions from the few dozen friends and family who’d shown up to celebrate with him.

More importantly, his editor wanted another book. After a year of struggling with titanic writer’s block and the birth of Josiah Andrew Clark, he’d finally hastily scribbled a bank heist story. In it, two teenagers planned what they thought would be the perfect holdup and getaway, a sort of Bonnie and Clyde for digital natives. That one caught the attention of librarians and educators, and quite unexpectedly, his years of teaching Shakespeare at the junior college level came in handy. Schools wanted him to come talk to their kids, conferences wanted him to speak or teach classes.

Braden gladly did it all. Even after three years, the moderate success made him dizzy, and Ashley’s pride in him thrilled him endlessly. She happily continued her work with disabled veterans at the Department