 It all started when my dad found the old car in the woods. I was away at college then, and neither him or mom told me about it when it happened. Instead, they waited to bring it up over Thanksgiving dinner in a tensely casual way that clearly wasn't casual at all. Like parents soft pedaling news that they're turning your room into an office, or that after a lot of thought, they've decided to separate for a while and see how things go. I could hear the nerves in my mother's voice as she first brought it up with a tight little laugh. They guessed they hadn't told me yet. But back a few weeks ago, my father had found an old car abandoned at the back of our land, or maybe, dad added, abandoned was the best word. There were two bodies inside, after all. I remember choking on my drink a little at that. My first thought was that I'd misheard or they were playing a joke on me. So that seemed out of character for my father. A glance at his face, and then my mother's told me all I needed to know. They were serious, and more than that, they seemed worried, or maybe even scared. I asked what they were talking about. How did something like that happen? And my father told me that the police said it was a married couple that had been missing for over five years. The working theory was that he'd driven them up the dirt access road that ran along the back of our land, and then turned into the trees. From there, they'd somehow navigated a path through the woods until they were in the hundred-acre wilderness behind the farm, land we rarely even ventured into these days. But in September of that year, my father had taken to walking in the woods some afternoons, and it was on one of those walks that he found an old brown sedan wedged between two trees and covered in layers of dirt and pollen and pine needles. So thick, he didn't even recognize it for what it was until he got close enough to touch it. And it wasn't until he spit onto the window and swiped a patch clean that he could see the bodies inside. Neither of them would say much more than the missing couple was dead inside, and it had all been very strange and sad. When I pressed the issue, my mother changed the subject, and between that and a forbidding look from my father, I let it drop. It wasn't until me and dad were out on the porch a few hours later that he brought it back up. Sorry to be so vague in there about, you know, the car I found in the woods. I looked around, surprised, less that he would talk to me about it than how he was speaking, a low, almost secretive tone that still seemed heavily corded with some sort of tension I didn't quite understand. Not that finding dead bodies in our woods wouldn't be freaky. But two months later, I didn't know why he was still affecting them so much. But I just met his eyes and nodded. No problem. I paused for a moment, testing the air of the conversation before going further in. So what happened to them? Dad raised his eyebrows as he puffed out a small breath. I don't know for sure. The cops called it a murder suicide. And maybe that's all it was. But Sheriff Perry and his couple of deputies aren't good for much beyond traffic tickets and breaking up a bar fight. I think if there had been a fuss from anyone, it might have been looked into more. As it was, well, people talked about it a couple of weeks and then it was done. He took a sip of his beer, at least for most people. Who killed him? How? Were they from around here? He shook his head. No, no, they weren't even from Alabama. Came over from somewhere east of Columbus. No family that I know of and no signs of what led them here to our middle of nowhere farm either. My father licked his lips nervously. The cops determined that the husband killed the wife and then shot himself. I frowned, you're being real careful how you phrase stuff, dad. Is that what you think happened? What did you see? Turning around, he glanced in through the window to make sure mom was still inside watching TV. Looking back to me, he lowered his voice a little more. You can't mention this to her. She loves those woods and it was bad enough I had to tell her what I found in the first place. I spared her the details and if I tell you, you have to swear you won't peep a bit of it to her. His lips drew down slightly. I know I don't push her much beyond the edge of the woods but we enjoy it and I won't have that tainted for her. You understand. I nodded as I took a shaky breath. Yeah, of course, yeah. He patted my leg and nodded as he offered me a brief smile. Okay, good. But then the smile left as quick as it had come and his expression became hard and worried again as he sent his words out to me across the night air. The first part, that's just like we told you over dinner, I was out walking thinking about trying to find a route I could turn into a chair safe path for your mother. When I saw this mound of something through the trees on my right, that wound up being the car. And like I said, I spit and wiped at the driver's side window until I could see inside a little see that people were in there would look like a man laying his head on the shoulder of a woman in the passenger seat. But it was still a really dark in there. I could have cleared away more of the dirt and leaves and such. But once I saw people inside, I panicked, reaching down. I yanked on the door. It didn't open at first, not because it was locked, but because it was stuck. Cop said bodies left to rot in cars like that can create a weird seal that makes it hard to open. Still, I didn't know that at the time and in my excitement and panic, I think I was still worried someone might be in there hurt or knocked out. So I yanked again. And this time the door came squealing open. The bodies were rotted, I guess. But in a weird way, they weren't gross or anything. And they reminded me of mummies more than skeletons, though they were kind of fat mummies. They looked more like people than I'd have expected, but weird at the same time. That's when I noticed all the strings. There were these red, I think of them as strings, but they were more like tendons or strips of leather or, I don't know, they were hard and stretched tight, thin lines of red that wrapped around those people's wrists and arms and head and, well, all over. I thought maybe it was dried blood or mold, but when I pulled out my flashlight, I could see it looked like meat, like raw meat coiling around them all over, like snakes before trailing out into the shadows of the car. I shined my light to see where the strings all went, but they didn't go anywhere. They just stopped in midair in a dozen different places I could see full of tension, like they were attached to something that filled the car but that I couldn't see. I was reaching for one of them just to see what it felt like when I saw it start to uncurl from around the man's shoulder uncurl and rise almost like it was coming to meet me. So I ran back when I got to the house I called 911 met the deputies here and then led them into the woods found the car and bodies easily enough. But all those strings, they were all gone. They looked at the bodies before taking them out of the car. Scott Keller, one of the deputies, he told me that the man wasn't just resting his head on the lady's shoulder, he'd been biting out the side of her neck when he shot himself in the hand. I, well, I didn't ask any more questions after that didn't want to know more after that. And I didn't say anything about the red stuff I saw, figured maybe I just been in shock and seeing things. By the next morning, the bodies in the car were both gone and, well, I guess that's it. I'd expected him to laugh or look relieved to finally tell someone about what he saw, but he didn't look any less worried than he had before. Not sure what to say. I wound up starting with a question in the forefront of my mind. But because I was curious and because I could tell dad didn't think he just imagined the strange stuff he'd seen in that car. So what do you really think the red stuff was? He sat silent for several seconds, staring out at the moonlight stretched across the yard. And when he spoke, his voice sounded hollow and thin. I don't know. I really did try to tell myself it was nothing that I made it up somehow. But he shrugged. I wonder what would make a man do something like that. I blinked, caught off guard by the change of subject, who do what? His voice was barely above a whisper now, hurt his wife. I bet he loved her and he still did it to her and to himself. Dad turned to me, his eyes wide. I mean, he would have had to, wouldn't he? Was there something else that could have done it? Did the police say that? He shook his head slowly, as though the motion required almost more effort than he had to give. No, nothing like that. I just, he sighed, I'm so tired. I leaned forward to catch his eye. Dad, are you okay? Offering me a smile, he nodded as he stood up slowly. Yeah, sure, I just haven't been sleeping well lately. He lowered his gaze, been sleepwalking a bit, if you can believe it. I went to say more, but then mom was opening the door to ask if we were ready for pie. I almost brought it up again to him or mentioned some of it to her, despite my promise to keep my father's secret. Instead, I told myself I was making too much of it all. Overall, he acted like himself, and he was a middle-aged man who had his worries, as most everyone does. If the worst his midlife crisis got was a bit of sleepwalking, I think we could handle it. That Sunday, I hugged them goodbye and promised I'd be home the week before Christmas. I made it back to my apartment just before midnight, and by the time I fell asleep, I already knew I'd miss my early class. By Tuesday, I was back in the swing of things, though, on my way to work, when I got a call from a number I didn't recognize, but with the area code from back home. When I answered, a voice introduced itself as Sheriff Perry. It told me that sometime Monday night, my father murdered my mother and then killed himself. The five years since have been difficult, but as with most things, time has caused the worst of it to fade, at least a little. I still think about my parents every day, feel guilty for not doing more every day, wonder what could have happened to make dad go crazy like he did every day. But at least I don't hate myself anymore, and the pain left by their absence has been lessened by meeting Martina and having our little girl. I have a good life, bordering on a great life, if I'm honest, and for months now I've been simultaneously trying to give up the last of the grief and guilt I hold onto while having this superstitious feeling that if I ever stop being sad and upset about it, all the good things I have will be taken away, some curse for not caring enough to be miserable. Maybe that's why when I got the package from the Russet County Sheriff's Office, I was filled with a combination of dread and perverse joy. Whatever it was, it had to be tied to my parents' deaths. Whatever it was, it had a way to pry open old wounds again. What it was, after ten minutes of me staring at it and chewing my lip, was a note and a book. The note was from the new Sheriff Keller. It just said, this was the only thing taken from your parents' death investigation that wasn't a biohazard, was cleaning out old evidence and thought you might want it, sorry again for your loss. The book was one of my mother's, a hardbound copy of Stranger in a Strange Land. Eyes welling up with tears. I opened it up, planning to just flip through it before putting it back in the box. My father's handwriting was on the inner cover. It read, something keeps posing me in my sleep. I wake up in strange places with strange thoughts. I don't feel like me anymore. It's hard to feel anything. Frowning but the S-T-R. That's how his note ended. My hands were shaking as I reread my father's words. Sucking in a huge breath, I began to fan through the pages for any other writing when I realized that the middle portion of the book was stuck together, a thick section of the pages moving as one as I reached them. Everything I gently tried to pry them apart and after a moment of resistance, they split open in the middle, revealing the thing holding them together. It looked like a raw red wound, thickly wet and penetrating multiple pages in both directions. It might have been a small, deformed heart if books had such a thing. I felt my stomach turn as the light caught its moist, shimmering surface and I had the insane and horrifying thought that this was something my father had done. Some part of mom he had cut off and hidden away in her favorite book, but no, this was far too fresh and it moved. I threw the book across the room, shuddering as I stepped outside to collect my thoughts. It was stress, it had to be stress, or it was something that had been in the evidence room that had spilled on the book before they had sent it back. I needed to just go get it and throw it away. Getting it out of the house was the main thing, heart hammering. I went back inside, Martina would be home with a baby soon. No need for them to ever know this was ever even here. I just pick it up, run it out to the trash can, and I stopped by the front door, staring at the book dangling from one outstretched hand. There were no stuck together pages now, no sign of anything weird or gross inside. Stepping out under the front steps, I flipped through the pages again. My father's writing was still on the inside of the front cover, but otherwise it was just a book. No raw red horror waited to get me from between the pages. Shuddering at the memory, I started walking towards the trash can again. Nothing had really changed, I didn't want it in the house, didn't want to think about it ever again if I could help it. So into the trash can it went, and over the next few weeks, everything seemed fine. Until I started sleepwalking. I would wake up standing in the kitchen or the yard, I'd be sitting down in the living room or bent over like I was looking over the dining room table. My muscles would be tense and sore as though I'd been exercising or positioned strangely for some time. But I never had any real sense of how I'd gotten to where I was or what I was doing in my sleep. Four nights ago, I woke up in the crawl space underneath the house. When I found a light, I saw that there was rope and a hammer under there with me, though I didn't remember ever using either under the house before. It freaked me out enough I got Martina to take the baby and go stay at her mother's for a few days. Inside I was getting sick and didn't want our girl to get it. For the next few nights, if I walked, I didn't know it. I slept a ton and when I was awake, I felt disconnected and strange. When my wife called about coming home yesterday, I told her to come on, that I missed her and wanted her home, that everything was a-okay again. When I woke up last night, I was standing over our baby's crib, a 20 pound rock from the garden held over my head. I should have been horrified, but I only felt mildly curious. Why weren't my feet dirty? Had I put on shoes or gotten the rock earlier in the day, I bet I'd planned ahead. Yes, planning ahead was always good. Quietly, I eased the front door open and tossed the rock back outside. Everything wasn't right yet. Not yet. Stepping back inside, I saw Martina's cell phone laying on the table where she'd left it when they'd come home. Laughing to myself, I pulled off the phone's case and headed into the kitchen. After a moment of quiet probing, I found a small felt-tipped pen in the back of one of the drawers. When I was done, I put the case back on just like it had been before. No one would know until it was all done. Climbing the stairs back to our bedroom, I chuckled again. Not yet, no, but soon enough. Soon everything would be quiet and ready and it would be good and right and wonderful. I thought again of what I'd written inside the phone case and beamed into the dark. To a puppet, strings are God.