The Lingering Dead by J. N. Duncan

poking through a pulled-back, lace curtain in the window of a sod-covered house. The look was one of curiosity and fear.
    Through the trees, he could see the house, built in a clearing partway up the hill. There was a millhouse off to its right, fed by the stream he had crossed coming into town. Every step increased that sense of death he had felt upon entering the town.
    The scream echoed down through the trees to him once again, fading into sobs, the sound of a girl or young woman full of mourning and rage. Nick urged the mare up the hill.
    Two hundred yards up the road, the trees thinned to reveal a wide clearing. There, a sturdy farmhouse had been built, whitewashed with green shutters on the windows. Here was the money of the town, the Thatchers if Nick were to hazard a guess. On the far side of the clearing was the mill, where he could see the waterwheel churning slowly with the current of the stream. In front of the door, a body lay sprawled in the mud, unmoving. Halted in the center, surveying the scene, Nick caught the unmistakable, muffled sound of a rifle being cocked. From the broken front window, he watched the dark steel of the barrel slide across the sash, pointed in his direction.
    â€œMa’am?” Nick called out. “I’m U.S. Marshal Nicholas Anderson. You needn’t fear me. I mean you no harm. I come to offer my—”
    A flash exploded from the barrel of the rifle and Nick flinched. The mare jumped, rearing back and nearly dumping him onto the ground. Before she could spook any further, he dismounted and grabbed the reins, keeping the horse between him and the window just in case.
    â€œMa’am, are you hurt? Does anyone need medical attention?”
    â€œThey’re all dead!” a young, female voice cried out. “He killed them all. What are you doing here?”
    Nick slowly walked his horse toward the front door. “Ma’am, what is your name?” He kept a careful eye on the rifle barrel that followed his every move. It shook with unsteady hands. The last thing he wanted was to get shot from an anxious squeeze of the trigger.
    â€œCharlotte,” she said. “Charlotte Thatcher.”
    â€œAre you hurt, Charlotte?
    The gun sagged, tipping the barrel toward the sky. “I don’t know. There’s ... there’s so much blood.”
    Nick stopped several feet from the door. He was close enough now to see that the girl was no longer peering out the window. “I’m coming in, Charlotte. I’m here to help.” He was met with the sound of choked sobbing. Nick tied off the mare and stepped up onto the porch. The front door was ajar. After easing the door open, he peered around the door jam and saw Charlotte sitting on the floor, face buried in her hands, her slight body shaking with the force of it.
    Add another name to the list of people torn apart and ruined by the man he could not stop.
    She was barefoot, her spun-wool dress ripped open halfway down the front. The white lace of the collar had been stained the rusty-red color of blood. Her hands were smeared with it. Strands of matted hair fell around her face.
    Nick knelt down next to her. “Charlotte,” he said quietly. “Let me see if he’s hurt you.”
    When his fingers brushed her arm, Charlotte’s hands dropped away, her eyes wide and blind with terror. She scrambled away from him, one hand instinctively clutching at her torn dress. “No, no! Stay away. You stay away from me.”
    Squatted down on his toes, Nick paused, saying nothing until those wild eyes refocused. “Charlotte. I need to see if you’re bleeding.” Finally she nodded, and Nick scooted closer, offering his hand to her until she took it. The slender fingers were buried in his and he held it firmly, trying to reassure her, while the other pushed up the sleeve of her dress, to check her arm, and then prodding and squeezing gently to check for broken bones and lacerations.